The Truth of Time
by Damian Cross
Summary: Held captive, Hermione twists and turns her words until nobody knows what is truth is anymore. But to win this game of War and Wits, she must ensnare the sympathy and interest of those who hold her prisoner. Her letter, dedicated to someone who might not be able to receive it, is the only thing keeping her alive and sane. Rated M to be safe. Please review!
1. Part One-The First

**Part One: Time's Captive**

I haven't got much time. Someone just knocked on my door and told me I've got less than three turns left before-before- drat, I must get my act together. If the words are blurred together because of these stupid, stupid tears then all this would have been for nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

_Nothing._

Another knock. This time somebody else yelling for me to stop crying, or else- I won't repeat their threats. I don't want you to know what's happening to me, here in this room. I don't want anybody to know-especially you._ You. You. __You._

Write a letter, she'd said. A letter to the person who haunts my every living breath, whose image floats before my eyes when I sleep and when I wake, whose loving voice whispers hopes and dreams and secrets every time a breeze flits in through the open window.

It's been three weeks since- and so much has happened that a letter will not suffice. I'll do my best- memory evades me sometimes, so I'll write down whatever comes to mind. I'll get somebody to number the sequence, so you won't be lost as you read through this.

But first, I want to write about us. Because then I can move forward with our memories as I write about the-other things.

You will always be the light that guides me home.

_Always._


	2. Part One-The Second

**(1)**

You came from a privileged family, as everybody knew. And those who didn't beforehand, definitely recognized that innate power you'd inherited, when you stepped onto the train with your perfectly cut robes and ornately carved trunk. _I _certainly did. Every bit of you was foreign and alien to me. Your world had been so carefully separated from mine that it was extremely easy to draw the boundary between our peoples.

I must confess, I hated you.

But then, I suspect the feelings were mutual. You made that quite clear, on that first day. What was it you called me? '_Mudblood'_. It didn't mean anything to me then-even your insults differed so much to mine. I think you were quite taken aback when I didn't give you the reaction you expected. Something that involved tears and snotty faces, no doubt. Definitely not a blank stare and turned back, a sniff of derision over the shoulder.

Perhaps you recognized a worthy opponent in me. I think I did. I'm not sure. Time blurs everything together.

At the very least, as we said later on, that marked our first meeting. A bump in the hallway, an exchange of terse replies, an icy glare matched with innocent confusion.

It was the beginning…

…of something.


	3. Part One-The Third

**(100)**

I just remembered something you said to me, once. Remember when we were in Hogsmeade, during our seventh year? Snow was falling, and my friends and I had just emerged from the Three Broomsticks when suddenly _you _appeared.

I'll never forget the looks on their faces as you smirked something at them, and kidnapped me, whisking me to somewhere dark and exciting, no doubt.

"Where are we going?" I had asked, all calm and collected.

"To heaven and back," you whispered.

So, so true.


	4. Part One-The Fourth

**(5)**

I think our fifth encounter went something along the lines of:

"Mudblood."

"Prick."

"Stupid Gryffindor."

"_Slytherin_."

I meant it to be an insult. But of course you thought it a compliment. You smiled-a brilliant flash of white teeth that, for a moment, literally stole my breath away. I had thought you incapable of such emotional display. My friends' nickname for you (well, I came up with it) was _'Stone Ice'_. Not very inventive nor creative, I know. But we were eleven then-and I needed something to call you other than your name. So that was what we stuck to.

_(That's one of your questions answered. Ha.)_

_(Yes, I remembered your list.)_

Then Professor McGonagall came round from the corner, and you scampered. I still remember the feeling of relish as I realized I'd finally gotten the last word in. Finally. Not that I was keeping score.

"Was he bothering you?" My head of house asked, her eyebrows drawn into perpetual sternness.

I was so tempted to say, _why yes Professor. Go deduct points from his house. _

So petty, I was. I suspect I still am.

But something made me shut my mouth and turn my reply into a shake of the head. Even then, I think, I wanted our moment to be, well, _ours._

Maybe, on some level, I had already known. That we had something…special. Secret.

Forbidden.


	5. Part One-The fifth

Another knock. It's her again. She brought me food. A wedge of cheese, a small loaf of bread, a handful of grapes.

A feast.

I am in good hands, don't worry. By the time you receive my letter, it'd be _much _too late for you to do anything, and you don't need to. Honest. I'm fine.

I'm supplied with a fresh quill, (already worn my old one blunt. No knife for me to sharpen it. Somebody else who can be trusted to not use a knife the wrong way will no doubt do it and return the quill to me. Shame. You remember that sharpening quills always calmed me down) stacks of parchment, and a lovely, lovely mirror.

It's unbreakable. I know because she told me. They're not taking any chances.

Oh, if only you could see me now. She plaited my hair into an elegant, stylish up-do that I'd never accomplish on my own, and showed me my reflection. I burst into tears. I don't want to look beautiful.

I want- I want-

_You._


	6. Part One-The Sixth

**(101)**

We were in a boat. On the lake. The waters were still, so still that the image of the full moon lit up your face from both above and below us. The silver threaded through your hair so softly, subtly, that it begged me to touch and feel your curls between my fingers. I did. And you did the same to me.

It was so, so perfect. I never wanted it to end.

The boat rocked slowly as you moved to sit next to me. A mistake. The combined weight was too much and we tipped into the cold water. When you emerged, clambering onto the upturned sorry-of-an-excuse boat, hair all wet, clothes sodden, clinging heavily to your body, I'll never forget the abject terror in your voice as you remembered.

I couldn't swim.

I had drifted someplace away-the wind suddenly chose that moment to beat furiously against the water, causing giant ripples that ripped me from your safe embrace. My dress robes were so dreadfully heavy, anchoring me down. I'd lost my slippers, and a few of my bracelets. I still mourn the loss of that gold one you gave me for my birthday. My legs were shivering from the cold, and kicking furiously. I didn't know which was up or down. Just knew that I needed to breathe, to gasp into fresh air.

And for a brief moment, as darkness washed over me, I whispered your name and said 'farewell'. But you were nothing, if not stubborn, and I think you passed that trait onto me, for even though my body had all but given up, my mind was chanting your name over and over again. Calling. Hoping. Daring.

Farewell, said my brain.

Help me, said my heart.

"Goddammit," said you, before finding my pale arm and heaving me back onto the boat. "Goddammit. I'm so, so sorry. I didn't-I wasn't thinking. Are you okay? Here, here, shhh, it's okay. You're warm now. Safe. Let's head back, shall we? Hot chocolate, a warm fireplace, relaxing bath-you'll get it all. And more. I promise. Shhh…"

Ah, promises. You've kept all of yours, but I've broken so many of mine.

So, so, sorry.

Farewell, my love, my heart, my soul.

My light. My _home_.


	7. Part One-The Seventh

I need to write. More. More. More. My brain is confused over so many things. I need to write before I forget. Before I break more of our promises. Before-

-My old quill is returned to me, sharp and pointy. I'm warned, once again, the only way I'm supposed to use it.

I told them stubbornness is the one thing I've still got left. The only piece of you I carry.

I. Will. Not. Fail. You.


	8. Part One-The Eighth

**(10)**

Herbology class. Professor Sprout-lovely, lovely lady, us Griffindors called her. She was fair, if not a bit strict, but nice. It was her who broke up our first ever physical fight. Her who grabbed our collars, cleaned up the mess we'd made, and marched us to the Hospital Wing, and then to our respective Heads.

I really think we should thank her.

(Don't laugh.)

(Really. I know you-don't ruin this beautiful, creamy parchment with your manly tears.)

"You are a student at Hogwarts," she muttered as we crossed the fields and into the castle. "And that means you have an expected way to act. Fighting like children is not tolerated, no matter the cause. Everything can be sorted with careful discussion, and if not, you can sort it out _without_ magic."

I think this was where you gave your infamous snort. "We're wizards. _Of course_ we use magic."

"Magic is part of us, and it is powerful, and enough to remedy all kinds of problems," She had replied, carefully, "But the bigger power is knowing when to utilize it, and when to keep it safely stored away. Look at you two! Look! _You_ made her eye swollen and covered with pus, and_ that_ will bear a scar, no doubt, with Madam Pomfrey away. And you! Look how he's limping so painfully, how his hair bites his neck! Look!"

We looked, but I felt nothing but satisfaction. Here was proof that muggle-born or no, I was equally capable of magical spells as you were, if not better. Transfiguring your hair into snakes was quite ingenious, really. I still think it inspirational, even if it is inspiration mixed with guilt, that it was _I _who did that to your wonderful hair.

Punishment was swiftly decided. Detention consisted of assisting the house elves in doing the laundry for an entire Sunday afternoon. With no magic. And no house elves.

I learnt a few choice swear words from you that day.

(If we're thanking Professor Sprout, we should probably thank Professor McGonagall and Professor Slughorn, too.)


	9. Part One-The Ninth

Outside, the bells are tolling. I counted thirteen. They said I had three turns of the giant clock left, and I have no idea how long that amounts to. Their clocks are numbered differently to ours. It's been four days already, and the clock has barely turned even a tenth of the way.

Curious.

Thirteen tolls of bells. I wonder what that signals. An arrival of an important guest, perhaps? If I climb onto the bench, I could peer out the window…

_Oh my God. _

It's him.

I need to continue to write. I need you in my dreams tonight.

Please.


	10. Part One-The Tenth

**(98)**

It was disconcerting, even then, the way our friends looked at us. Like they believed we were in a trance, and would snap out of it any time soon.

If they were right, then I'm still captivated by you. And I don't want to wake to reality.

Advanced Potions, our seventh year. Assignment was to brew veritaserum. It was a very…_interesting_ lesson, shall I say? Extremely enlightening. I still smile at the memory.

(She's looking at me with a weird look on her face, no doubt I look like a complete fool, with my mouth all stretched and giggling as I write this. She doesn't get it. Us. And she never will.

Never.)

As the top students, we thought Slughorn would pair us off together, but he didn't. He truly was the master of testing students. I think he wanted to see what results we would attain if we were separated. Were we strengthened by our partnership? Were we defined as a couple, and simply ceased to function as individuals? Or, perhaps, were we brilliant in our own ways, but simply flourished if we were working aside one another?

(We both know the answer to that question.)

So, I was partnered with one of your best friends. I can't remember his name right now, it was so long ago. But I remember that he was not one of the henchmen-type 'friends' that trailed behind you like a lost puppy, but one of those who actually possessed individual, intelligent thought.

"I'm still not sure, exactly, why you two like each other." He said, as I banked the fire and he chopped up some slug hearts.

"I don't know either," I had replied, rather truthfully, "But I think, on some level, we were always attracted to each other. Just that our juvenile minds could not comprehend our feelings, and so directed them into channels that we understood."

"Hate," he smirked, stirring in the leeches.

"No. _Passion_."

"They did say that love and hate were two sides of the same coin. You two pretty much demonstrated that fact."

"I disagree," I took a ladleful of beetle eyes and carefully added it to the bubbling cauldron. "What we felt in our earlier years was not hate. It was misunderstanding. If I truly hated him, I'll not be here, talking with you. If I had hated him, and he hated me, I'd have more scars than fond memories, and I wouldn't have so readily forgiven him of his past misdeeds towards me."

"Hmm…" He didn't believe me. Of course he didn't. He was witness to nearly all of our arguments, fights, duels, and petty backstabbing. He was the one who was the recipient of a ricocheted spell I'd cast, and accompanied you to the Hospital Wing, groaning in pain together for two days and three nights. Your very_ best friend_.

On the other side of the dungeons, you were probably having a similar conversation with one of _my _best friends. I couldn't hear you two, but I think it probably went something like this:

"So, you're dating my friend."

"Yes. Though dating sounds…flimsy."

"Well, isn't it? Aren't you two just venting out some feelings? All that built-up animosity, I suppose, must go somewhere."

"Perhaps. But our supply has long been used up, or maybe we never really were capable of such hostility towards each other."

"Please, the number of times I visited her in the Hospital Wing because of you-"

"-Our fights were childish, the product of infantile ignorance. Strong feelings are extremely difficult to put a label on, and even if we could, what we felt probably had multiple conflicting labels. It's-It's difficult to explain."

"Put that knife down and look at me. Tell me you like her."

"I can't. That would be undermining our relationship."

"What a load of _utter bullshit_. You don't like her, do you? Do you? She's just a toy to you, something to pass the time with-"

"-The _only reason_, why my fist is not in our face right now, is because I don't want her friends to be hurt on my account. How _dare_ you say something like that to me-_how-fucking-dare-you_."

This was where you stood up, and in your anger, knocked over your stool. I had heard the last bit, and winced, because I knew you, and I knew my friend. Both stubborn and proud mules, the both of you. Cut from the same cloth, just too blind to recognize how similar you both were.

"I _won't_ say I like her, because I _love_ her. Do you even fucking _get_ what that means? Do you? Insinuating that she's just a-a-distraction, a momentary toy that will inevitably get thrown back into the chest is-is- insulting, at the very least. I don't care if you slander my name, or my family's, but if you question my feelings for her, you question hers, too. And I won't stand for you to insult her-"

Now, this is the part where somebody blocked my view, but the next thing I saw was my friend clutching an empty vial and you gagging on the floor.

My friend was a competent potion maker. I knew he wouldn't poison you, on purpose or otherwise. He himself had gotten out of a difficult relationship recently and was in that stage of denial. Thinking that love is a universal lie, created by romantics and devious beings who sought to ensnare pitiful, hopeless creatures, only to release them with nothing but broken hearts. I finally broke him away from the firewhisky by that lesson, but his scars remained, and he was hurt deeply.

Your friend and I rushed to your side. Only I propped you back against the table, and your friend's fist collided with my friend's face, just like you had wanted to do. Slughorn did nothing, just quietly observed us. Part of the test, I reckon, or maybe he was too old and lazy to actually do something.

Your eyes had gone scarily vacant, and I struggled to keep you upright. Your friend finally realized what was more important and helped me, while I mopped up my friend's bleeding nose, all the while lecturing him and pressing harder than necessary.

"I just want the truth," he told me, wincing, "I don't understand how anybody-let alone _him_- can actually believe in all this crap."

"_I _believe in this 'crap'," I reminded him, rather drily. "Why aren't you forcing veritaserum down me?"

"Because even though I really want to, it goes against the code of friendship."

"I didn't realize we had a code."

"It's not written. It's just there. Just like, as your male best friend, and in the absence of any older brothers or fathers, it comes to _me_ to treat your boyfriend like utter shit. It's in the description box-it's practically a tradition."

I frowned, "it would be more believable if you stop grinning."

He shrugged, "enjoying it is also part of the contract. Just like his female best friend is supposed to get him back on track, away from 'distractions'. Did you not read any of the books I gave you?"

"No, and I definitely will not, after that little rousing speech of yours."

By the time I stopped his nosebleed, you were sitting down like an obedient child, with your friends clustered around you, and mine around me. Two opposing sides. All eagerly awaiting for a big showdown.

"Is it true," my friend demanded, "that you believe in-_love_?"

"Yes."

You said it so certainly that my heart skipped a beat. Even with the full effects of the potion, you managed to find me in the sea of faces and kept your eyes locked with mine.

"And who are you in…_love_ with?"

"Her." A finger pointed directly at me, so, so certain. I should have kissed you right then and there.

"And what will you do for her, if your parents found out?"

You frowned, "everything I need to do, even if it meant defying my family."

I think all the girls, on your side and mine, sighed a little at that. I did, too. I had to sit down.

My friend had wanted some hesitation on your part, or at the very least, a reluctance to divulge information. But your conviction, your strong faith in our relationship, surpassed everything my friend expected. I believe that it was this, and the way you directed your answers to me instead of him, was what won him over.

In retrospect, I know that it was at this point where there was no going back.

You and I, we are in this together. Until death do us part.


	11. Part One-The Eleventh

One week, she told me, he's staying for one week only. I still have plenty of time. I was promised three turns of the clock, and she'll make sure I'll get, at the very least, that.

I want more time. I need it. All this remembering and writing and having you so, so close to my heart is more than I can take. I'm blubbering like an idiot most times-can you imagine that? Me! Sobbing my heart out!

Would you still love me? This shell of a person?

I don't think I do. I hate this version of myself.

Useless. Helpless. Clueless.


	12. Part One-The Twelfth

**(12)**

Polishing trophies, scrubbing floors, making beds…that I could do. Washing laundry? Not so much. At home, we just threw our dirty things into the machine and pressed several buttons. Easy-peasy.

Still, though, I knew what to do, even if I was completely incompetent at it.

You, on the other hand, I think this was the very first time I ever saw you look so…utterly hopeless at something. In class, your arrogance and cool confidence won a lot of praise. Your assignments were close to perfection-just shy of being the top student. Quidditch, too, was one of your many skills.

(Admit it, you're a better Keeper than a Seeker. Go on, I won't say 'I told you so!')

Armed with a large, soapy bucket and basketfuls of dirty school robes and smelly socks, we both visibly paled. Though our detention slip stated that we would remain here all Sunday afternoon, the unspoken rule was that we had to finish our loads, even if it took more time than that.

You crossed your arms and sat down on a stool, the fleeting expression of uncertainty I saw earlier carefully replaced by disdain.

"I'm not doing this."

"Yes, you are!" I had snarled, frustrated that on this sunny day, I was not out with my friends and had this stubborn, pretentious prick for company.

"This is servants' work, this is. Not fit for me. I'm not getting my hands dirty. And what the hell are we supposed to do?"

I detected a cry for help, buried under all that family aristocratic pride. But I was young, and petty, and selfish, and decided that you were to blame for this punishment. I would not waste my breath and energies in coaxing you to help. Besides, if I finished my own pile, I'd be free to go, and wouldn't it be grand if I left hours before you?

So I shook out a mud-splattered quidditch robe and plunged it into the hot water, using a board they supplied us with and scrubbed it as fast and hard as I could. It took a fair amount of time, that one piece of clothing, and by the end I was exhausted, but it was clean, and I hung it up on the line that stretched from wall to wall.

All through this vigorous exercise, I was well aware of your probing, curious eyes. Observing every step, noting down what to do. After a while, it was obvious I was not going to offer any advice or help, and neither were you going to ask for any, so, with a huge sigh, you pulled up your sleeves and, with a wrinkled nose, fished out a sock and dipped it into the water.

I actually thought you were going to make a huge deal out of it, when you emerged at last with the sock clean and ready to dry. I really did. I thought you were going to dangle it in front of my face and demand me to acknowledge your skills, that, even without magic, you could do something just as well as I could, thus proving your superiority. I waited with bated breath, counting the seconds down…but when you simply stood up, clamped a peg over it onto the washing line, and silently proceeded to the next item, I knew that something had shifted, that perhaps I didn't know you as well as I thought I did.

We did end up spending more time washing the clothes than stated on our slip. We worked through dinner, and well into nighttime. Not one word or even look was exchanged during that period, which was extremely rare for us. Normally when people saw us together, they would find an excuse to stay, obviously sensing an epic battle about to start. Our cold, one-word retorts always grew into heated arguments, and then into duels with the worst spells we could think of. It was a pattern, an inevitable event, a recipe for entertainment.

When I finished about two minutes before you, it was somehow understood that I would wait for you to finish and exit together. We picked up our empty baskets, you opened the door for me-without slamming it back into my face- and walked together, albeit slightly apart, down to McGonagall's office, where we went to collect our wands.

That was the very first time I spent more than ten minutes with just you. It was the first time I'd ever thought that you might be more than just a Slytherin snob, that, maybe, just maybe, you could be someone I might even grow to respect.

But then, as I've said many, many times now, I was young, petulant, and petty.

I never did know what was perfect for me.


	13. Part One-The Thirteenth

She reminds me of somebody. She's annoying, selfish, and a bully. But, on the other hand, she's fair, and she understands me. She reads through what I've written, so I won't disclose my whereabouts, or the people who hold me captive, but through my words, she's becoming less of the caricature I'd thought her to be, and slowly evolving into somebody more… _real_.

Maybe I was wrong about her. I had hated her. I wished her dead. I had tried to stab her with the knife I'd claimed I needed to sharpen my quill.

I think I'm beginning to regret my actions.

She's sitting on her bed, combing her hair. Beside her, locked from me, is a stack of books in a cabinet. They are for her eyes only, because she's shut in here because she was asked to, not because she was forced to, unlike me.

I couldn't see the difference before, but now I do, even if the margins are blurred sometimes. That working _with _someone is something altogether different to working _for_ someone. She lies in the second category, and it is because of that, that I restrain from strangling her with her stupid long, blonde hair.

I've just remembered who she reminded me of. And now I'm crying. Again.

I'm pathetic.


	14. Part One-The Fourteenth

**(3)**

She was always trailing after you, much like your henchmen-type 'friends' did, only she wanted very much to be more than that.

The first time I properly met her was during one of our very first fights. We must have made a record-only two days in, and already serving detention for 'intolerable childish disputes'. Anyway, I'd sent a sort of flash of light at you, and you sent another equally wimpy spell back (first years, remember), when she jumped out from behind you, rules be damned, and threw herself onto me.

She never got a punch in, because my friends, being boys, were faster and stronger, and peeled her off me, and I knew a little about kicking too, but what struck me that time was the way you let yourself be defended by a girl.

That was what made me truly hate you.

She stood, her lip bleeding because of her own blind punching and pinching, and you just stood there, looking so bored, not even helping her to her feet, or offering to go with her to the Hospital Wing. While I looked on, completely unharmed, but with my own friends fawning over me like a delicate flower (yes, I lectured them about that later, you know me so well) I felt a feeling akin to pity for her.

But that all went to waste when she snarled, "Stupid mudblood bitch," and cast a bat boogey hex which _hurt_, damn it! And also made me feel like a complete failure because she had mastered this complicated hex and I had not, and also, at that point, the extent of my abilities only stretched from fixing glasses to shooting light and making my quill wiggle on my desk. It was one of the most humiliating things I've ever been through.

(What a pretentious brat I was.)

It was that hex, more than the insult or the attempt at beating me up, which solidified my hatred for her, and for you, and for all the people whom you associated with. It was from then on, on our second day at Hogwarts, when class hadn't even started, that there became three sides to our war. Me and my friends, you and your friends, and the spectators who loved to goad us into action.

Idiots, all of us. Fools.

But then, wasn't it that kind of innocence which marked the extent of our childhood? Before the understanding of shades between black and white, between friends and traitors, and enemies and allies, before all this adult consideration and teenage angst- before all this, we were all children once, running into oblivion, blissfully free, with our robes flying with the wind, our bare feet flying over the grass, where a small kiss on a scratch made everything okay.

I was restrained, only just, from flying back at her with a repertoire of carefully planned witty insults, by-who else? Professor McGonagall. She took one look at the situation, and the spectators all dispersed, blending in with the suits of armor and cheeky walls that decorated the ancient castle, and then she said the two words which still send shivers down my spine even as I'm writing it down.

"Office. _Now._"

The final verdict for our first fight was: one hour of copying lines for me and my friends, and polishing trophies without magic for you and her. Separated to prevent any more skirmishes. Our animosity encouraged, unknowingly, by the same Professor who tried to put a stop to it.

That spark of dislike flared into hatred, and it was because of her, because of your uncaring behavior, because _she _dared to like you when no others would. Because she trampled on my pity and was _better _than me.

Looking back, I realize even then, she was smarter than me. She grew up faster than any of us. She understood. Did she even have a proper childhood?

To my surprise, I think I miss her.

(Stop laughing. Yes-you're right. Yes, I'm quick to judge character. Stop it.)


	15. Part One-The Fifteenth

The clock has turned halfway. It's been two weeks since it last moved. They've stopped bringing me proper meals and instead feed me small delicacies. Fruit tarts, stuffed birds on crackers- they even bring me chocolate, which, apparently is extremely rare and expensive in these parts.

I feel like Hansel. Fattened up to be eaten, devoured.

He visited me today, and ordered her to leave. I've grown so accustomed to her presence that her absence frightens me. He sat down on the only chair available, and had me stand up straight, appraising me like a butcher does with a leg of lamb.

I said, before, that I don't want you to know. I lied. I want you to know, I want you to shout it from the rooftops. I want everybody to know how utterly PATHETIC and USELESS I am being. I want you to forget I ever existed.

It hurts to write that. But I really want you to. Forget me.

It's so cold, so cold, _so cold_. I wish I was with you.


	16. Part One-The Sixteenth

**(45)**

Christmas dance. The one event in our school life where all romantic relationships should culminate into epic proportions of what dreams are made of. Where people discover their one 'true love', where dances are magical, where kisses are given, not stolen.

I suppose that, looking back, it should have been here where we discovered that, Hey! You're not so bad- maybe we should, you know, declare our love and all that lovely, whimsical things that lovers do when they meet each other as lovers for the first time.

But our bond was always special, always there. We didn't need this dance to realize this. This dance didn't shape our lives, didn't pave our ways into blissful heaven or all things good.

In fact, it was rather boring.

It took place in awkward fourth year, where both of us, and all our friends were on the precipice of young adulthood, where having girlfriends and boyfriends was to be the epitome of awesomeness, and being single was something to be ashamed of. Both of us never shared that belief, but our best friends did.

That was where one of my male best friends met, whom he thought was, the 'one'. And I think all of us were astounded when they came into the hall, dressed in complimentary colors, hand in hand and giggling like fools.

It was the second time both of us were silent in each other's presence. Dumbfounded, stunned, bamboozled. Thinking, what-how-why-_huh_? Trying to see where we went wrong, why our friends decided to play out the parts of Draconian Princess (I hope you remember the muggle story), why we hadn't seen this coming, and what we should've done to prevent this.

Because, seriously, _him_ and _her_?

Unbelievable.

All that night we sulked in our respective corners, carefully avoiding eye contact with each other, because if we did, no doubt a fight would ensue, and then we'd ruin our friends' 'magical night'. We were petty, and sore, and angry that they'd kept it a secret, but at the same time, as their friends, we had to be glad for them. I grudgingly admitted, after, that she looked especially pretty that night, and you too, had commented that my friend wasn't that much of a prat that night. We both emphasized the time frame, because when the magic of the dance was over, the battle lines would return and there would be clear cut sides.

Then, Slughorn -that devious old man- waltzed right up to you, grabbed your hand and moonwalked to my corner.

"It is Christmas!" He cried, "Joyous, happy Christmas! Don't be so miserable and alone! Dance, my pupils, dance!"

And what could we do, but dance?

So we walked, rather unhappily, to where Slughorn told us to, and stood about a foot apart, your arms hovering above my shoulder and waist, and mine a careful distance away from yours. After all, we both knew the danger music and actual dance caused. We danced-sort of- we kind of swayed and stomped and slid at the same time. You were the dancer, not me, but you didn't see the point in demonstrating your wonderful skills.

We suffered through an entire song, and as soon as the last note was blared out, we abruptly stepped back and turned back to our shady corners, hoping that neither of us would ever speak of it again.

Awkward, awkward, awkward.

And with no friends to complain to, no wands to practice spells with, we sat, chin on palms, and stared at our friends' laughing faces. Both completely bored and wanting to crawl into bed with a good book (in my case) or a good bottle of firewhiskey (in your case). The whole evening crawled by, and it seemed that we were the only ones in the entire hall unhappy, unsatisfied.

But we were too proud to admit that our dance had alleviated the boredom somewhat. Perhaps if one of us, me or you, had simply sat down with the other in silence, it would have made the dance more bearable. But neither of us did. We only avoided Slughorn as he tried pressuring us into dancing again.

Of course, Slughorn was onto something. He always was.

He did, after all, give us that first push.


	17. Part One-The Seventeenth

Two and a half weeks.

TWO AND A HALF WEEKS.

I can't-won't-I _don't_-

-I have to.

Have to. Have to. _Have to_. Have to. For Us.

I hate them. I hate them all. I HATE YOU ALL.

Why me? Why me? Why Why Why _Why?_

For us, is that enough of a reason?


	18. Part One-The Eighteenth

**(115)**

It was Autumn, my favorite season of the year. The trees around the Manor sprinkled their maple-syrup colored leaves around the grounds, and the first thing I did was stomp through them, with you looking on and sharing my childish glee. It was late afternoon, and we were just in time for tea.

You had warned me, beforehand, how your parents would try to intimidate me by showing off their wealth and power, by not even deigning to show respect by answering the door themselves, by talking_ about_ me instead of _to _me. You said it loudly when the invitation came, then you whispered it as we grasped hands and apparated, and then you muttered it as I pressed the doorbell with shaking fingers, the hem of my dress robes damp from my leafy adventures.

Imagine, to our surprise, when the door swung open to two people whose faces we were not expecting.

"Glad you could make it," said your mother, bending down a bit to kiss me on my cheeks, "Come on in, and-oh dear, let's get you out of those wet robes. Son, what are you doing? Take her cloak, honestly, don't let her think we taught you no manners!"

You snapped back to life and helped me shrug my cloak off. Both of us were so stunned that I let myself be steered upstairs and into your mother's bedroom, while your father ordered the house elves to heat up the pastries and brew tea.

_Your_ father, organizing _tea parties_. I told my best friends later, and he laughed his head off. For nearly fifteen minutes. The other one just stared, jaw hanging open. I told you he was very much like you-your jaw was so close to the ground I honestly thought you might ingest some critters crawling on the carpet.

It wasn't until your mother casually shut the door behind her did I realize that they'd separated us on purpose. Wet robes, after all, only needed a quick drying spell.

"I hear you have been dating my son for just over three months now," she said, sorting out some robes in her wardrobe.

"Yes," I had replied, not daring to expand my answers.

"I won't lie to you; it came to us as quite a shock."

"It was extremely surprising to us too," I admitted, "I mean, your son and I-we weren't- we aren't exactly-"

"-Similar," she finished. "Here, let's see how this looks on you."

I struggled into the lovely blue lace-trimmed dress robes she held out, blushing furiously as she didn't avert her eyes as I changed.

"Did you not take up Madam Pomfrey's offer?" She said at last, when I finished and stood there awkwardly.

I shook my head. "It-I mean, both of us didn't want to-"

"-So my son didn't either? Of course; he was always bullheaded. I thought that he would change from your influence. Clearly it was the other way around. Turn around at bit-hmm, a bit tight at the waist…"

"We made the decision separately," I said firmly, "I didn't know until afterwards that he didn't do it too." I winced as the dress stretched around me.

"The color brings out your eyes, stop fussing. I have to tell you upfront that neither my husband nor I like this union." She examined her handiwork, walking around me, adjusting sleeves and shortening hems.

"I understand completely, my parents were not happy when we broke the news to them either. They thought that, well, we belong to two completely different backgrounds, and that would inevitably lead to problems."

"Who would have thought that I would share the same views as muggles?" She gave me a wry smile. "The robes suit you. Consider it a gift. Take off your slippers; it doesn't go with the dress."

"I assure you, your son and I are very much in love," I said without a trace of shame, "Both of us have been through so much, and we know perfectly who we are," I bit my lip, "we had to convince my parents that we belong together, because I know that without theirs-and yours-approval, our relationship would never last. Neither of us wants to become the reason for breaking up families."

"And I suppose that the reason why you accepted our invitation was to persuade us as well?"

"It was one reason, yes."

"And the others?"

"Approval or no, I want to know you better. I want you to know _me_, and I wanted to see the place where he grew up. " I lifted my feet and studied the new slippers, then stopped as I realized she had fallen silent.

To this very day, I still can't-and won't- forget the look on your mother's face. She held the front of her robes very tightly, her grey eyes piercing, her lips melting into a calm smile.

It was the look of content.

"Look at me, child." She said, very softly. "It pains me deeply that you are not from a pureblood family, for you are every bit the daughter I wish I had. My son speaks highly of you, even back when you two were sworn enemies. I know that you would make a wonderful partner for my son, but I'll not give you two my blessing."

I gave a stiff nod. "I-I see," I murmured, looking down.

"There is a war, do you understand? I will not make any promises I cannot keep. Alliances must be made, and people get hurt, people_ change_. I cannot guarantee that my opinion of you will remain the same in the aftermath-_if_ we survive. It is too much of a risk. I can only say that his father and I will allow you two to see each other for now, until it comes to a point where it is no longer possible."

The war was always in our minds. The line between the two sides were drawn so surely between our peoples that we knew that it would take every fibre of our being to be the same person we'd always been to each other. It would be our greatest trial, and, we swore, our greatest triumph.

It never occurred to us, that perhaps the war was bigger than just-_us_. That even if we persevered and emerged the same, there might be situations placed around us that prevented our relationship. Huddled in Hogwarts, with only letters as connection to the outside world, it was easy to forget, easy to simplify it. Your mother's words still burn deeply inside of me-people _change_._ I _have changed. Do you still love me? Would you still, after you see me now?

Your mother finally approved my attire, and led me back downstairs where you and your father stood in the Tea Room, waiting for us. I could tell, immediately, that your father had told you the same thing. Try as you might, your eyes always betrayed your true emotions, despite your greatest efforts to remain impassive.

The rest of the afternoon passed by in such a blur. So heavy was your mother's warning, and her reluctant, temporary blessing, that I could not even admire the home that you spent most of your childhood in. I think both of us remained in that stupor even after we returned back to Hogwarts, after we surrounded ourselves with its safe, comfortable, familiar stone walls.

It was the first crack, wasn't it? The first that led to thousands of others, which invariably shattered our perfect illusion.

'Us' no longer meant just you and I. _Us_ meant our friends, families, allies, and our goals.

Nothing was ever simple.


	19. Part One-The Nineteenth

Of course I should have known. _Of course_. Writing this was her idea, after all. But my grief and my pain barricaded all coherent thought, and I didn't _think_.

He came back today, dangling in front of me the same two choices he presented to me on my very first day. He reminded me that my fate was in his hands, and that he could-and would, if need be- choose for me.

I calmly replied that I still had two turns left, and slapped him. He fell against the door of the cabinet, slamming it shut.

Then he answered that time was something not up to me to control, but that it acted of its own accord. He added further that he could see why I was taking so long, his words dripping with its implications.

And afterwards, he moved me downstairs, and by _downstairs_, I mean in the basement, where no other living soul is present, except for _her_-pretenses must be kept, after all, but she hardly counts. From there, I could see my two choices. One is in the midst of assembling, the sounds audible even through stone walls and wooden doors with its locks, and the other I could touch just by stretching out my fingers.

The _bastard_.

But he can't take you away from me. Nobody can. He can make me choose, and I will, in the end, bend to his will, but he cannot erase you from my mind. Your existence is wound tightly with my heart, and if you are gone, then so am I. We are bound to one another, you and I.

Bound, with magic no greater than the strength of will and heart.

Bound.


	20. Part One-The Twentieth

**(367)**

The chains were clamped so tight I had lost feeling in my hands a long ago. When the door opened with a quiet click, the light washed from the corridors and across my eyes. I think I made a sound, a small injured moan, because I felt invisible fingers clamping down onto my tongue, its intention clear. But by that point_ pain_ was as familiar to me as the word 'tolerable' was. I could_ tolerate _pain. I could_ tolerate_ silences. I could even _tolerate_ Him silencing me.

I couldn't, however, tolerate the knowledge that we stood divided.

His voice, always so quiet and calm, carried easily over to my battered and bleeding ears. "My Keeper says you are ready to give me your answer."

I nodded, and for a moment, the headache which had subsided a bit, came rearing back in full force. I turned my head and vomited onto the stinking floor. The sick splatters it made didn't deter Him at all; He stepped gracefully over the wretched piles I'd made and came all but a hair's breath from my dirt and tear streaked face.

"Well? What is your answer?"

The tightness on my tongues relaxed, and I rolled it around in my mouth and cleared my throat several times. He had left me in solitude for almost a week, and speaking with my injuries required every last bit of energy I still mustered.

The light from behind made His pale face seem even paler and crueler than I had thought possible. I looked away and focused someplace behind it.

"You gave me two choices," I said carefully.

"Yes," His mouth curled into a sneer, "_Choices_," He taunted.

The thumping within me was not just due to my headache. The atmosphere lay heavy with anticipation, and dread, and hope.

"I choose the second option."

He recoiled, and I almost saw Him flinch. Then His eyes narrowed into slits. "I expected more from you," He whispered, trailing a long, icy finger down my cheek, His fingernails scraping open my fresh scabs. "Such a _pity_…"

He snapped around, His robes swishing behind, in step with His decisive march back outside. His retinue, who had been looking in from the threshold, straightened, and one of them made to shut the door.

"Tell her," He said, His voice cold and hard, "that her _choice_ would take place tomorrow. At noon. And that it will be public, and by a method of _my _choice."

A quick intake of breath, a small, almost inaudible gasp. I cried, my heart filled with emotions I hadn't felt in a long while.

Then the door slammed shut.


	21. Part One-The Twenty First

It's been a week, and he visited me for the last time, or at least it is until my three turns are up.

He'd sat down on my bed, eyeing disdainfully the state of my little cell. His eyes roved over the small writing desk he'd provided, over the scattered quills and smashed ink pots.

"So," he breathed, "so."

I stood stiffly in the corner, arms folded.

"You think me a fool?" His voice rose barely above a whisper, so palpable was his anger.

"No more than what you think of me."

He gave a small, quiet laugh. "Oh, my dear girl, I would never think _you_ a fool. Underestimating you was a heavy price I have already paid. I am simply… intrigued."

I waited, knowing he had much more to say.

He rose, his expensive deerskin boots made nearly no sound as he stalked over to the desk and picked up the pile of parchments.

"You will write, because you have to, and I will see them. I _will_," he emphasized, "by any means necessary. You have a tale to tell, and I know that it will be of great benefit to me."

He tucked the papers into his sleeve, and paused on his way out, his look more cutting than any knife's edge.

"You are an unreliable narrator," he said, and left.

I could only laugh at that.


	22. Part One-The Twenty Second

**(20)**

Everybody knew I was useless at chess. It was a well known fact, solidified even more so by the very public matches I held with my best friend. I remember that you had used my weakness against me, many times. It was a taunt, made to topple me off the pedestal others had put me on. I guess if I'm thanking the professors who made me who I am today, I should thank you too.

(But don't let that get to your head, at least not _yet._)

(That's another thing off your list.)

The Great Hall, especially during lunch times, was busy and bustling at the seams with restless students. A game, a chance to rally support, to tease, to cheer, was always welcome. When quidditch was not available, chess was a good substitute.

I always lost, no matter the opponent. I had established myself from day one that I was an apt academic, a know-it-all, a person who could actually be called a genius. It, therefore, amused everybody greatly when my intelligence took a stumble when faced with what everybody thought was such a _simple _game.

"No!" My friend called out in exasperation, after I'd made an obvious blunder, "Look at the bigger picture! Merlin's Beard! The objective of this game is to capture the King, to ensnare him into a trap, it is _not _whose pieces are more at the end that wins! For victory, it is necessary to make sacrifices!"

"But it's cruel," I said, staring down at my battered chessmen who had bravely plodded on, despite the knowledge that they would all get crushed, "If I can save every piece, then I should, shouldn't I?"

"_If_," my friend sighed, "if you can. It is more advantageous, sometimes, to have more pieces, but you must also consider what pieces are important. Saving a pawn, and leaving your bishop and knight open, are poor choices. The bigger picture," he reminded me, "not what's right in front of your eyes."

Then you had let out another of your infamous snorts from behind me, where you'd been watching. "Oh, you're such a _girl_," you said, your eleven year old self thinking that the word was an insult, "always trying to save _everybody_."

"Oh, shut up," my friend snapped, not liking somebody else, least of all _you_, insulting me. It was a privilege granted to him and my other best friend only. My other best friend (It is tedious, this not mentioning of names, it's getting a big confusing, isn't it?) was absent from the Great Hall, as he had landed himself in the Hospital Wing. Again.

"This isn't chess you're playing," you sniffed, head held high, "it's a child's game. When you want to play the_ real _game of Kings and Queens," you smirked at me, "you're welcome to be defeated by my hands."

We'd seen you play chess before, and knew that, for once, your boasts actually carried truth. If I couldn't even last three minutes in this game, I'd had less of a chance of even surviving with you as an opponent.

The words were out before I could stop them. "Three weeks, same time, same place."

You raised your eyebrows, and a cheshire grin stretched across your face, rendering my nickname for you inapplicable.

"It's on," you said softly, wickedly, "oh, it's on."


	23. Part One-The Twenty Third

What was it he had said? That I write because I _have _to.

I suppose he's right, as hard as it is for me to admit it. Writing down our memories together calms me down, keeps me from making other choices. He had offered me two choices, but I could come up with a third, even if he tries his hardest to make it impossible.

The quills are sharp, I had liked to remind him, the ink would flow down my throat nicely-

-She_ insists_ on reading over my shoulder, like a trained parrot, shouting out every time I reach the very end of the parchment, snatching it up and passing it to the person who reaches for it through the crack in the door. He's trained them well, he has, like a puppeteer and his faithful, stupid, puppets.

And not only does she snatches the parchments away, she reads over what I write, and provides an insightful, and unnecessary, commentary. She_ does_ remind me of your friend.

(Fine-_Ours_. Whatever.)

"You said _here_," she'd say, "that you never hated him, that it was passion. But then _here_-" a stab at a line, "and _here_, you wrote that you hated him. So which is it? Did you hate him, or was it all just pent up passion?"

"People change," I had replied, tired of her incessant whining, "and along with it, their opinions. Retrospect is a powerful tool, and viewing things from different perspectives is another powerful one."

And to that, I was rewarded a full ten seconds of a blank stare. Oh, what I wouldn't give to see it again!

But she must have grown on me, because I added, "when I write, I like to put myself into the mindset of whomever is narrating it. When I was eleven, I_ was_ sure I hated him. When I was seventeen, I knew that it wasn't so."

I had hoped my little explanation was enough to placate her. Of course it didn't. It started an entire horde of mind numbing questions.

"It is confusing, who's who. You've only ever mentioned names of the Professors, and only their last names. Why won't you write down names?"

"Because names are also powerful tools," to which I had answered, perhaps not as helpfully as before, "it is actually quite essential that I refrain from mentioning any important ones."

"Surely you can tell me yours? What use is a name if you have nobody here to claim you as theirs?"

She was vindictive, that one. I can see the resemblance now, with her brows all scrunched up in mock confusion, driving her words into me like stakes.

"Names," I had repeated, "are powerful. Mine, especially. Besides, you haven't told me yours, so why should I be the first to divulge such information?"

"My name is of no consequence to you," she waved a dismissive hand, "I'm part of his household."

"_His _household," I said, very quietly, and with a small snort, "of course."

"You change tones frequently, sounding desolate in some areas, omniscient in others, and downright self deprecating in most. Why?"

"Moods to me are as changeable as the weather. I enjoy a bit of variety in literature. Don't you?"

"Literature? _This? _This is a mad woman's rambling," she scoffed.

"Maybe," I said, eyeing her underneath my lashes, "and yet you seem very interested in what this mad woman has to say."

That shut her up, she gave me a filthy look and sat down onto her chair, and combed her hair again.

"You have just under two turns left," she snapped, "and eat your cake."


	24. Part One-The Twenty Fourth

**(95)**

It was obvious to you and I that our friends' romantic entanglement was temporary, but to them it would become as permanent as that stern expression on McGonagall's face. It was dependable; always there. I believe, that at that time we were, perhaps, the only two people who felt something was off for them. Maybe we felt that way because we_ knew_ how they really should have felt, having experienced it ourselves.

So it came to us to no great shock, when we found our respective best friends stoically avoiding each other, carefully distancing themselves, as if they had not been attached at the hip for the past few years.

"I really don't know how to deal with girls who've just broken up," you confided to me, after a particular grueling, and awkward, Transfiguration lesson.

"Neither do I," I sighed, "he's getting worse. I just wish he'd do_ something_-like-like-yell at us, or cry, or I don't know-express his feelings somehow. All he does is pretend everything is fine, and then drowns himself in Firewhiskey at night. It's-_ difficult_."

You sighed, too. "For once, I just wish she would _sob,_ and get all snotty-nosed and sappy like a _normal _girl would do. Do you know what she does? She _reads_, and writes, and locks herself in the Independent Study Area in the Library, like-"

"-Like what I do, most times?" I raised an eyebrow.

"-Yes, alright, I'll give you that," you gave me a crooked smile, "But you must admit that it's _strange _for her. I mean, her grades have never been so good!"

"It is rather odd," I bit my lip, "what does she read about?"

You shrugged, "She's been checking out all the books on Aion, she's been obsessing over it ever since Binns mentioned it last week."

I remembered that lesson, too. But the deity was only mentioned in passing, to illustrate the fact that muggles and wizards all shared the same religion, once upon a time. I thought it was rather out of character for Binns to actually preach about the evils of discrimination, but then, _everybody_ was on edge. There was, of course, a war brewing.

We rounded a corner, and immediately slithered back, unseen, although we both strained our ears to eavesdrop on our friends' conversation.

"-No reason at all-" my friend was saying, his grief palpable and raw.

"-Reason? I already gave you one," she said coldly, "I _don't like you _anymore. It happens."

"That's a bloody load of rubbish! Give me a proper reason why-"

"-Why?" She laughed quietly, "Why I dumped you, or why you're even here, after what I did to you?"

"I don't believe, even for a moment, that you did that because_ you_ wanted to-"

"-Please, don't flatter me. I do things precisely because I _want_ to. How many times do I have to ram that into your thick head? I don't like you-I _hate_ you, and I don't regret _anything_."

There was a brief, painful silence.

"I see," my friend murmured, "so it all comes down to this. My side versus your side. Ideals versus Beliefs."

"Right versus Wrong," She taunted, "Truth versus False."

"I don't know you anymore," he said sadly.

"Have you ever?"

"No, I suppose not. I guess this is goodbye, then?"

"I already said mine, rather clearly, last week. Let me go, please," her voice trembled, losing the steeliness, "go away from me, before-"

"-Before?"

"-Forget what I said," she snapped, "You wanted a reason, and a goodbye, and now you have both. Leave me be!"

She angrily stalked away, her footsteps echoing loudly. But not loud enough to drown the sound of my friend driving his fist into the stone wall, and it was not enough to cover the sound of his strained, choking sobs as he cradled his bloody hand against his chest.


	25. Part One-The Twenty Fifth

I was greeted, this fine morning, by a rather fine blast of lecturing from _her_.

"What gives you the right," she spluttered, pulling the warm covers off me, "to-to-"

"To what?" I asked, rather peeved. My dream for once had been a nice one, and she cut it short with her shrill whining. I could feel a headache coming.

"How _dare _you. How-how-" she was so angry she could only open her mouth and gasp a few breaths. Her hair hung in two braids, her dress dusty and dragged in mud.

"How dare I? It was my own work, wasn't it?"

"How am I going to explain this to him? The _one _thing he entrusted me with, and_ you _ruin whatever shred of chance I could've have to-" she stopped, realizing who she was talking to.

"Yes?"

"-Never you mind," she snapped, rummaging around the room in a fit of frenzy. "Where are they? Where did you hide it?"

"I didn't hide anything," I pointed out, "What you have is everything. So far, anyway."

She turned around to snarl something odious at me, but caught sight of Option Number Two hanging in the wardrobe. A breeze flitted through the gap under the locked door, making it flutter and dangle in front of her jealous face.

Her hand moved as if on its own accord, fingers splayed out in desperation. Her lips quivered slightly, her longing plain upon her petite features.

Then her hand fell abruptly to her side. Without another glance behind, she left the room, letting the door swing shut behind her.

"Get to work, farm girl," she said, before climbing the stone stairs, her footsteps muffling the tremble in her otherwise icy tone.

I sat, her words stewing in my mind.

Farm girl.

Farm girl.

_Farm girl._

Realization hit me, making my head spin.

She _knows_.


	26. Part One-The Twenty Sixth

**(370)**

He dragged me, upside down, head lolling limply, blind, tortured, and scantily clad, to His _choice_.

I smiled grimly as the gentle lapping of water reached my ears. Though I could not feel it, I knew that beneath me lay an entire field of soft, spiky grass, with pebbles and sand sprinkled upon it. I knew that in a few more steps, He would reach several stone steps which lead to a small dock, where a boat bobbed gently with the waves. I also knew that He would throw me into the water, and laugh as I inevitably drowned, for He knew that I could not swim.

The blindfold was torn from my eyes, and I gasped as light flooded in. I curled into a ball, whimpering, sobbing, every bit the terrified prisoner facing execution.

As we had expected, my execution would cut a grand picture. The first public execution of a war prisoner had to be theatric, dramatic, in order to temporarily satisfy those thirsting for blood. Previous deaths were dealt with in the privacy of the torture chamber.

He lifted me into the boat, and descended elegantly behind me, his wand poking into a fresh wound between my shoulder blades. He dug it in and twisted it, drawing blood but not a sound.

"So, this is where we stand," He smiled, revealing jagged teeth, "I'm_ ever_ so sorry you won't have a tombstone."

I stared defiantly into his slit-like eyes. "You will lose," I bit out, my voice harsh and cracked. The wind picked up and carried my words easily to the crowd watching the spectacle.

Half of them laughed, guffawing at my stupidity, while the other half gazed somberly at my battered body. What happened next, they knew, would change everything.

"Lose?" He whispered, "Oh, I think _not_."

Then he gave a flick of his wand, and I tumbled into the water. Ropes braided with stones and heavy bricks wrapped themselves all around me, dragging me down.

I couldn't hear the splash, nor his triumphant speech to his troops, but I didn't care.

I was half-dead, nearly dying, and desperately wanted to fill my lungs with air. But, did you know? Did you know that as I gently spun downwards, all I could see was you?

Your smile,

Your laughter,

Your embraces,

Your faith in me.

I knew that He would come back in a few days to fish my dead and bloated corpse out and display it for everybody to see. My body would be His trophy, proof of His triumph. It would be evidence that _everybody _had a weakness.

And _everybody_ knew that I was hopeless at two things. Chess, and swimming. It was a well known, well publicized fact.

As I sunk into the darkness, I allowed myself a small grin. For once, knowledge would be His downfall.


	27. Part One-The Twenty Seventh

She's back, as I knew she would. Now that she knows what _he_ suspects, she'll attempt to weasel out of me the truth, the reason why I'm here.

The papers I'd torn into shreds, the quills I've snapped, the ink pots I've emptied all over the desk were painstakingly cleaned up and stitched together. From now on, she insists, I will tell my tale aloud, and she will write it down.

She's not taking any chances. Not after what happened last time.

The only way I'm recording this right now is because I had smuggled bits of paper and writing essentials deep within the folds of my dress, during my rather childish tantrum episode last time. Writing calms me. It always had. And now, more than ever, I need every drop of sense to stand my ground.

The outcome of the war, after all, rests upon my shoulders.

I shall not fail my comrades.

I will not fail _you_.


	28. Part One-The Twenty Eighth

**(93)**

The classroom was hot and stuffy, so uncomfortable that it seemed to have affected Binns as well, which really showed how intolerable it all was, considering, you know, that he was _dead_.

"Today we start the lesson by continuing on from yesterday," he began in his usual-and as my best friends insist-monotonous voice, "the Goblins revolution sparked an outrage amongst the wizarding community, serving as a catalyst for…"

I blinked then, in confusion, because Binns had actually _paused_ during a lecture with no reason other than because he _wanted_ to. It was a true historical moment, I believe.

"War," he said, very quietly, "As a professor of History, I revel in it. The heroic tales, the cruel punishments, numbers which mark casualties. A hundred years from today, I wonder, will I continue to stand here and teach students such as yourselves what is going to happen? Will I stand here and ask, for an exam, the number of deaths the upcoming war caused?"

A silence completely different to the one before reigned. Boredom was washed away by fear, mundanity with numbness, uncomfortable with quiet, searing pain. I watched as you scrunched up the parchment you'd been doodling with in a tight, white fist. Immediately, lines were drawn. And you and I were on opposite sides.

"As a teacher," Binns continued, pacing in mid-air, "I am meant to give you facts and statistics only, to leave it to _you _to decide who was Good and who was Evil. But-but-times such as these-" he shook his head in despair, and I suddenly got a glimpse of the man he once was: not the teacher whose position defined him, but the adviser and guide students had relied on, a man with opinions and a sense of right and wrong.

"Please, Professor Binns," I said softly, raising my hand in the air, "please continue the lesson about the Revolution."

You glanced back at me, relieved that you didn't have to do so. Tensions were already running high, and skirmishes had avalanched into battles. Binns' abrupt change in personality was not going to do any good, at least for now.

"Yes, yes, Miss…Er, Miss-"

"-Granger, Professor."

"Miss Granger. Yes, I most certainly will. Back to cold, hard truths about Goblins and wizards who died and fought years ago."

"-And witches," I heard your friend mutter, but she had a hint of a smile on her face.

"Goblins did not believe in divine beings, not like how wizards and muggles did. Times have changed, and along with it, our religion. New gods and goddesses appeared, while old ones were forgotten. And though now many muggles still worship and pray, we wizards have long stopped. But once upon a time, we must remember, we all made sacrifices to the same Deities, and we all kneeled_ together _at the altar of a Goddess."

_Well_, I thought. _How is this related to the Goblins Revolution at all?_ I knew it was a pointless preach, for everybody had already made up their minds about which side they rooted for. Acceptance of muggles into wizarding bloodline, or purity of the magicked. It might have worked a year ago, however.

"Accounts from both races have described the same Divine Beings. Some, of course, have different names and slightly different traits, catering to the needs of the peoples, but essentially they are one and the same. Neptune, for one, the Roman god of the sea, a counterpart to the Greek god Poseidon, was also named Agua for us wizards. Hence giving his name for the spell of producing water '_Aguamenti'_. The Gods of time, Chronos and Aion for the muggles, were combined into one Goddess named Tempas for wizards-"

I raised my hand again, "Excuse me, sir," I butted in, "But wasn't Tempas depicted as male in some legends?"

It was his turn to blink in confusion. "Why, yes, Miss Grant, that is true-in a way. A small community worshiped Tempas in the form of a man. They believed that the Goddess Tempas descended from the Heavens once in a human lifetime to mark a newborn son as one of her own. He would be the equivalent of her, to serve as an anchor for time. The people believed it was his duty to control time, working as an overseer, a direct servant to the Goddess herself. He had the same powers as she, but perhaps maybe a little bit stronger, for he lived with the mortals, while she only looked."

"But how would they know?" Your friend asked, uncharacteristically interested in a lecture, "who the chosen boy was, that is."

"A physical mark," Binns answered simply, "a mole. It's size, shape, and position were the same for all of those who were chosen, but where, and what it looked like is lost from our knowledge. Some books say that the chosen were a family-the Masters of that community. That they lived atop a hill, in a temple surrounded by running waters. But that community was very small-the rest of the world didn't believe in a man bearing the powers of a Goddess. And anyway, about three hundred years ago, the man who, at that time, claimed to be the chosen was chased out of the village. And we wizards was converted into worshipping Aion instead. He was young and unmarried, and it is unknown whether he lived to bear more sons."

"Never daughters?" I asked, a little bit miffed that a Goddess chose not a member of her own gender, "it was always _sons_ who were chosen?"

"_Always_," Binns said sternly, "and now I'm off topic. The General that leaded the Goblin attack at..."

The fog of heat had lifted, and he was back to his old, and apparently boring, self. I stared at the notes I had made from his deviation and stuffed them into my satchel, to be used as scrap parchment later. It was clear that it wouldn't be in the exam.

I wish I had kept them.


	29. Part One-The Twenty Ninth

It is done. They have finally assembled it, having placed the last piece just moments ago.

It is a pyre.

A funeral pyre.

For me.

_Which would you choice?_ He had asked me, on that very first day, _Death or Life?_

_Would you choose to burn as a witch?_

_Or would you be my bride?_


	30. Part One-The Thirtieth

**(102)**

The boating incident left its mark: I had cut my forearm against a sharp rock, resulting in a raw, painful wound that scarred. When the boat overturned, and you struggled in the water in search of me, your foot slammed against something hard which had splintered, its pieces digging deep into your flesh. That too, left a scar.

The first thing Madame Pomfrey did, was scowl.

"Holidays," she said, slamming down the tray of potions harder than she ought to, "are meant to be relaxing, _stress free_. And then _you two_ go gallivanting off and killing yourselves!"

"Ah, not entirely true," you pointed out, "we went on a boat ride, down at the lake in my grounds."

"It was full moon," I added, "romantic and sweet."

She rolled up my sleeves and tutted, "if you had come to me as soon as the incident had occurred, I could have healed that in a jiffy."

"You-you can't do anything about it?" I asked, worried. The wound was in no trouble of getting infected, but it was ugly and big. I was tired of wearing long sleeves all the time.

"I can, but it will be rather painful," she pursed her lips. She sighed loudly. "You have two choices: one is to completely be rid of it, or shrink it down so it will remain only as a faint brown line."

It was obvious which option to choose. "I can handle pain," I said bravely. "Please just make it all go away."

"I want you to think about this carefully. The stone you cut yourself upon was poisonous-or rather, the moss growing on it was. Though, luckily, its toxins did not reach your bloodstream, and the healer at hand was competent enough to drain most of it from your body as to not cause any harm."

"Most?" I squeaked. "So-"

"So if you were to completely get rid of the wound, if done properly, it can be fixed. But the chances of living flesh come into contact with the poisonous residue in the dead flesh is high, and if that happens…"

"B-but you can do it, right? You're the best healer we know!" You argued.

She didn't look so sure. "A safer way would be to clean around it. A scar would remain, but smaller. However, I can offer you this: a colleague of mine is famous in the healing world for this kind of problem. I can refer you to him, and he would certainly do a good job."

It was an offer hard to resist, but school had started, and I had already missed Potions because of this appointment.

"I wouldn't mind a small scar," I said quietly, "it will serve as a reminder that there are always things to be learned."

"We can start right away," you assured me. "The weather is warm enough. And I believe the scar on my foot just adds to my manly image."

"_That_ I can make disappear in a few seconds," Madame Pomfrey sniffed.

"I'll keep it," you said. "It'll be a token of our midnight adventure."


	31. Part One-The Thirty First

My time is up. In a few more minutes, she is going to snatch away this page and deliver it to him.

I have failed.

I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.


	32. Part One-The Thirty Second

**(22)**

As predicted, the news of the upcoming match attracted unwanted attention. As the day dawned, I found myself surrounded by hordes of people who had either betted for or against me. My own best friends seemed to be the only ones to have dared placed one knut in my favor, but I suspect, judging from the forlornly small amount, and the way they swallowed nervously as they propelled me towards my seat, they did it more out of loyalty and duty rather than their belief in my victory.

Not that I could blame them, of course. My practice sessions had been laughable at best. I lost a few games and almost won some, while you plowed down every opponent who faced you. It was, really, a match that had ended before it started.

As we both sat down, the crowd fell silent. The next few minutes ticked by, and only the sound of the chess pieces waltzing over the board could be heard. Normally matches were accompanied by incessant commentaries, with my best friend muttering, as best he could furtively, advice into my ear. However, he found himself jaw dropped as the rest of them.

It took me less than ten minutes to beat you. I must confess I rather enjoyed the vast array of emotions flittering across your face as my Queen tore your King to pieces.

"Check mate," I said, unable to conceal a devious grin. "Surprised?"

"Hardly," you replied, with more grace I had thought you capable of, "I knew it was a fruitless match when you played that knight."

I had expected tears, tantrums, a shaking finger declaring I cheated -at the very least, I thought you'd demand a rematch. But none came, only a muted approval and a look of growing respect within your calculating eyes.

"This match," he said thoughtfully, "It started a long time ago, didn't it?"

"What does he mean?" My best friend hissed, "Hey, explain it to me!"

My other best friend shrugged, and he had to take off his glasses to polish them, for his open mouthed breathing had fogged them.

"Well played," you stretched your hand over the battered chessmen for a handshake. I took it, looking at you straight into your unwavering gaze. It wasn't only you who suddenly found themselves some grudging respect for the other. Your uncharacteristic nod at defeat, and admitting me the better player, somehow dulled the triumph I expected to feel. In a good way.

But I couldn't resist making a final barb. "You have only yourself to blame," I said haughtily, "Never underestimate your opponent."

"Vastly," you said, with a bit of a smirk, "but you _were_ a devious one. Even fooled Admirer Number One and Worshipper Number Two."

I shrugged, "I had to make it plain and well known that I was a horrible chess player."

By now, almost everyone save our closest friends had wandered away, counting up their money to pay my best friends later. I suppose, in retrospect, that was a good thing. By the next hour, most believed that I had somehow made a fluke, that it was a lucky mistake. Some even believed that you lost purposely, because you made a bet _for_ me against the great odds.

We let them continue believing that.

By the following week, all but my best friends and yours knew the entire truth. Both you and I encouraged the false rumors. I think you did it to save your pride, but also because you knew that I needed a tangible weakness for me to be knocked off my pedestal. Standing up there was tiring, and having people prod me to see me topple off was annoying at best, and hurtful at worst.

So it came to become a well known fact that I was hopeless at chess. One triumph with money involved was, of course, not sufficient evidence to prove my worth.

Later, much later, when we began dating, you let that fact slip during dinner with the Death Eaters. I think you said that you sandwiched it between talks of games and Mudbloods, that it was a way for me to be humiliated, by stripping away the armor of intelligence and cunning I had wrapped myself with.

Even then we were making preparations for a battle we had no notion of.

Tipping the scales in our favor.


	33. Part One-The Thirty Third

The clock has turned almost three turns. I breathed heavily in relief, for it seemed the hand had all but frozen at the very last tick.

"A favor," he had said, eyeing my ink splattered hand. "The loose ends are starting to tighten. I must see them knotted."

So it seems I have not failed you. A small victory within many others.

"How much time?" He asked, "Before you either slip on that lovely bridal dress hanging in your wardrobe, or be dragged onto the pyre to be lit up?"

My blood had long grown cold as stone. I lifted my head and smiled sweetly, feigning innocence and naivety. "My tale is not yet finished, my Lord. But please give me another three days, and I shall be."

She, who had been listening closely while folding clothes, glared at my sugared words. While he may be the lord on top of the hill, she was the mistress who held power. If I am to complete my task, then it was more important to win her over than it was to gain his trust and word. A pity, then, that I had spat into her face yesterday.

He stood, casting a giant shadow over my kneeling figure. "Three days," he ordered, "and not a second more."

The clock outside rewound itself, and the hand started ticking.


	34. Part One-The Thirty Fourth

**(97)**

"A galleon for your thoughts?"

An arm stretched across my weary shoulders, kneading them until I lost hold of my quill.

"That conversation," I muttered, closing my eyes.

"Ah," you sighed. Neither of us had talked about what we had seen and heard a few days earlier. My friend still bore a few scars on his knuckles, proof that we had not hallucinated.

"It's just-" I turned to look at you, making you stop your massage. "Even though I knew that they didn't have, well, what we have, it still struck me as strange that she would break it off like that."

You pulled a chair and sat heavily upon it. "I know," you said heavily, "and ever since that confrontation, she's been locking herself into an empty classroom. She hasn't even attended any classes, nor does she join us for meals. I don't know what to make of her actions. At least your friend is putting up the pretense of being normal and chirpy."

I snorted. _Chirpy_ was not a word I would use.

"Let's…." I lowered my voice, "find out what she's been doing."

"Oh, oh _no_. Bad idea. Abort immediately."

"What? Why? We should intervene before she falls ill. She can't keep going on like this-"

"-Yes, but there is a reason why she's isolating herself."

"And that is?"

"Well… perhaps she wants to mourn her relationship alone?"

I laughed. "No. I know her, better than you think I do. A project is consuming her every thought, and a relationship would only interrupt her."

"Is this a not-so-subtle hint as to leave you alone to your studying?"

I gave me a sidelong glance, "you know me better and better by the day. Here-" I tore a corner of my parchment and drew a star, "I'll give you a pat on the back for every ten stars you earn." I transfigured a broken nub into a pin, and attached the star neatly over his robe.

You pouted, a sight I still cherish today. It wasn't so often I saw you acting like a child, not since that day you came home to find _Him_ sitting at the foot of the dining table. "A pat on the back? That's measly. I thought a girlfriend of mine would be more generous. Please don't make me go into begging-boyfriend mode. It humiliates me."

I leaned in, smiling suggestively. "I could amend the prize," I whispered, as seductively as I could. Which, in all honesty, probably conjured the image of me brandishing a chainsaw and waving it about like a mad mass murderer.

"Hmm..? Please, do continue." You kissed the very tip of my nose gently. "Don't mind me. I'm just planting ideas. Subliminal messages, you understand."

"Very subtle," I said, "But seriously, we need to find out what your friend is doing in that room. It's unhealthy. At the very least, we should coax her into eating in the Great Hall again, just to keep an eye to see she's eating at all."

"It's impossible to distract you, did you know?_ Impossible_. I cannot believe my girlfriend is immune to my art of seduction."

"Art, my ass," I muttered, "To speak of real art, you only have to look at the star I drew. Now _that_ is fine piece."

I packed up my bags. "Let's do some sleuthing."

We spent the better half of our free period, and the hours after dinner searching through every possible empty classroom we could find. It seemed that she moved around often. It took me a few moments to realize we were doing everything wrong.

"You said she was looking up books about Aion, right? Let's start there."

We went to the library, and was bemused to find all the books about and related to the God of Time all borrowed out. I resorted to mail-ordering the books instead.

"Why Aion, though?" I wondered, "Why the muggle counterpart? If I was her, I would be reading about Tempas instead."

"Perhaps because they are the one and same," you said, wisely, "it helps to gain a better perspective from the other side."

I nodded, understanding the logic behind this. I had a natural gravitation towards Tempas because I was born into the muggle community, while she was interested in Aion for exactly the same reasons.

"Tell me about your friend," I said, sitting down and warming my hands by the fireplace. We were closeted in an unused classroom that must've once housed Potions classes. Empty jars scattered atop the raised shelves running all across the walls, and an old large cauldron still hung in the fireplace we had lit up.

You fell silent, gathering your thoughts.

"She comes from an old family," you started, "I met the Parkinsons when I learned to walk. What struck me most was the way her father treated her mother. In my family, as it is in most other pureblood clans, the father held the main power, while the mother took a more behind the scenes role. But her father acted in _deference_ to Mrs Parkinson. Stranger was, nobody thought it weird. It was just how it was.

Later, I overheard my parents discussing them. It turns out that although her father came from an affluent and powerful family, her mother's family, though nearly destitute, stemmed from an extremely famous, royal blooded wizard who once lorded over an entire wizarding settlement. Of course, hearing this, I still wondered. Royalties were not rare; my own ancestress was a princess who married into our line. And being lord wasn't such a great feat, not when there were more lords than were servants from where her family once resided.

But that aside, she once told me that there was no love between her parents. Her mother had married to win back her family's lands. The lake I always tell you about- the one where I spent most of my childhood swimming in- it once belonged to her mother's people. As was the hill, and the lakes that surrounded it. I think that the lakes once joined together as several rivers, once, but what mattered to her mother was that it was now back within the grasp of her family. An old ancestor of hers had died prematurely, leaving behind no will and named no heirs. The lands were auctioned off, and that's how it belonged to the Parkinsons.

Now, my friend was always average. I know it sounds mean to say this. Her parents had hoped to marry her into a good family, but because she was not a beauty, nor was she particular skilled at magic, or a good speaker, or made friends easily, their only hope was to send her to Hogwarts and receive a good education, and maybe ensnare a husband, or alliances along the way."

"How awful," I said softly, "to have such a heavy burden upon her shoulders." I remembered her eyes, fiercer than anything I had seen, that first time I saw her defending you. No, she had outlived her childhood fast, and was thrown into the wolves of adult politics.

"I suppose her name earned her a few friends- a clique, if you could call it that. Slytherins didn't want to upset her because of her father's-and more importantly- mother's name. It was an unspoken rule within the pureblood families, that the Parkinson women, though not rich, were a force to be reckoned with. Nobody really knows how it came to be, or why, really, they were to be treated with caution; it was ingrained within us from our parents.

I think that's why her and I became such fast friends, because I treated her with disdain. It was refreshing for her, and, at first, a game for me. I disliked her because her name was greater than mine, even though our family had more connections and had more money. She liked me because I didn't hesitate to put her down, and said what I thought of her directly to her face. It was…an unusual friendship. We came to mutual respect sometime during our first year, and been loyal to each other since. It's rare to find a true friend amongst the opportunistic house mates we lived with. Our frankness was what bound us together."

You stopped, unable to continue. At least you raised your head and looked at me. "I don't know how to continue," you admitted, "I say we are best friends, but truthfully, I don't know her at all."

I thought about my own two best friends. I knew their unique quirks, their schedules-they were probably attempting to finish their homework in the Gryffindor common room, only to discard it away in favor of mocking the professors- and, most of all, I knew that that they knew me just as well.

The door opened slightly, and we both turned. Standing in the doorway was her-hair unwashed, robes wrinkled and dotted with ink and dust, carrying an entire stack of books.

A tense moment passed, and then I walked over and took some books from her. "Where do you want them?" I asked, "Whatever it is you're researching, I've got all night to help."

She faltered, blinked, and her mouth fell open. "This-this is mine," she stammered, unsure of the sudden kindness I showed her. She recovered swiftly, and snapped, "Get out, the both of you. I need peace and quiet."

"I'd rather stay and help," you said firmly, "but after I get some food from the kitchens." You left the room, leaving the door ajar.

"Right," I said, trying to sound upbeat, "I know that Aion is concerned with time-" I paused.

"And?" She asked, gently placing the rest of the books on a desk.

"And that's it," I mumbled, "I was never very concerned with mythologies."

She sniffed, "Neither am I. What I'm researching is _History_."

Feeling I'd insulted her, I hurried to add, "Of course. But I'm still helping-whatever your project is."

She gave me a long, searching look. Seeing the steel within my gaze, she sighed and nodded. "I'm tracing back to where Tempas became Aion," she said softly, "What happened to the wizarding community to have changed the Goddess into the muggle male God. Unlike the other deities, Time was one that both muggles and wizards eventually called the same name, instead of stemming from the same divine being and making it their own."

I licked my lips, daring myself to dig further. "Is there a particular reason as to why you're researching this?"

"I believe that my ancestor, on my mother's side, was the last man whom Tempas associated with," she said bluntly. "No other area in all of the wizarding or muggle settlements fitted the place where he lived so perfectly."

I thought back to your story, and to Binns lecture. "The hill," I muttered slowly, "A temple on top of it, surrounded by running waters."

"The house I live in now, even after centuries of demolishing and rebuilding, still retain aspects of a temple built during that era. My mother married my father, and insisted we live in that house even though he had many other more suitable places to live. I asked her, many times, but she too doesn't know why it is so important to live there. She was only doing what her own mother told her, who was told by _her _own mother."

"It is possible, then, that the lord who claimed to have Tempas' powers, the one who was run out of the village, to have left behind daughters," I mused, "back then, women had no claim whatsoever, so his daughter could not win back the hill or the temple, and since the mark of the goddess only appeared on sons, she had no tangible evidence either."

She nodded, and flipped through a heavy leather-bound book whose yellowed pages cackled. "That's what I thought. But every account I've read said that he had no children-he never married, and soon after he was driven out, he died from sickness. Alone."

"We should find out why he was banished," I said, "instead of finding more about the God and Goddess, we should focus on the man himself. That is your goal, isn't it? To see if he truly existed, to see if he was your ancestor, and whether he really had the powers to control time."

She smiled, "ever so clever. But this isn't a simple family tree I'm curious in. My findings-if my suspicions are correct, could change…everything."

"Time," I mused, "if one could gain power over that, think of all the things we could change."

The unspoken topic lingered tantalizingly between us. _War._

You burst back in, arms full with every bit of food the house-elves had dumped on you. "Snacks: check," you panted, leaning against the door to close it, "Single male with two attractive females: Check. Good night ahead: check."

She turned, her eyes impossibly big. "What ever have you done to him?" She moaned, "I liked the pretentious brat _so _much better."

Eyeing the way you strutted about like an alpha male in the midst of females in heat, I could only agree.

"We need more supplies, dear," I batted my eyelashes flirtatiously. I think. "Please fetch them for us."

"And what would that be?"

"A good dash of cut-the-flirt, followed by a bundle of study-mode, and perhaps a small pile of know-your-surroundings," I said innocently.

"Ah," you said, "Be right back."

You put down the snacks and raised a hand to your face so that your palm hid it from view. Slowly moving it down, your smiling face was replaced by an expression most aptly described as _constipated_.

"Fine!" I said, laughing, "point taken. Do come join us, oh serious-one."

She buried her face into her book. "I'm surrounded by lunatics," she moaned, "where is the nerd and the brat when you need them?"

But she was smiling.


	35. Part One-The Thirty Fifth

"I summarized a bit," I said, "the search for her took a few days, and it took me much longer to convince her to help us. But with time pressing short, I had to make a few changes. You understand, of course."

"Of course," he echoed mockingly. He gestured to her, who was setting down a cup of tea in front of her. "Join us, and listen to the lies she's conjuring."

"Oh, my lord," she said, bobbing a small curtsy, "I don't think she's spinning lies at all. Rather, she's condensing the truth. Omitting details. Important ones."

_Clever, conniving bitch,_ I thought. But my smiling, earnest expression did not falter.

"I wonder," I said, in the same innocent tone, "whose idea was it for me to write this as a letter?"

She flushed, ducking her head, but not before she threw me a dagger of a glare.

"I mean, wouldn't it be easier for me to have told my tale properly? From beginning to end, instead of dedicating it to someone?"

He took his cup and sipped a long sip. "You'll be surprised at how much you let slip, my dear, when you write with a recipient in mind. The details are…how should I describe this… revealing." He smiled, showing two rows of white teeth, "I could almost forgive the unnecessary love talk for the information you've given me."

I felt my entire body grow rigid and cold. How much had I told him without meaning to? I reviewed what I had written in the past two months, and calmed down. I had written nothing that gave away my name, or anybody else of concern. We were safe. I hoped. But I could shake the unease off, for her words still haunt me. _Farm girl._

"Parkinson…" he took a delicate scone and buttered it, talking between bites, "so, it seems my suspicions were correct." He slammed the knife down, making me wince at the sharp noise.

He rose from his chair, "send for a messenger," he ordered her, "I have a letter to be delivered."

Neither of them saw the brief smile that appeared on my face.


	36. Part One-The Thirty Sixth

**(350)**

I was caught.

For three hours I was tortured with the _crucio_, being demanded to hand over secrets. Secrets that would ensure their triumph: battle plans, locations of safe houses, the amount of resources we had.

I bit my tongue and refused to speak.

They found me amongst the dead. A comrade from my side had fallen on top of me when he died, trapping me beneath his heavy body. I was weak from fighting, and had fainted from the impact.

I awoke to a booted foot nudging me at the side, and then cool fingers pressed against my neck, feeling my pulse.

"She's alive, barely," I heard a woman call out.

They were well organized, and soon I was shackled and thrown into a cell that smelled of damp and sewage.

I lay there, trembling, unable to move and breathe deeply. After the blinding headache subsided a little, I crawled to a corner and vomited what little I had eaten earlier.

As if on cue, the door swung open, and the same woman who discovered me entered. She carried a tray which bore two stale hunks of bread, and two glasses of water. Stepping carefully around the puddles, she knelt, wrinkling her nose at the smell.

Her gaze was unsettling, worse than the torture I had just endured. A bright, red flush started from my neck and worked its way up to the roots of my shorn hair. I was thin-bone thin- and my dress robes were in tatters, the blue splattered with blood red. It covered just enough to make me still feel decent, but what despaired me was that it was barely recognizable.

"Dinner," she said softly, "for the Mudblood."

She handed me the bread, and set the tray down. Her piercing eyes never once left my face.

"Two choices for your drink," she pointed to the two identical looking glasses. "Water from the river, or water from the lake."

It hurt to snort.

"What does it all matter?" I asked, my voice scratchy and dry. I saw the shadow of the guard posted outside move impatiently.

"The river contains blood and filth, while the lake contains poisonous moss. Your choice. The first or the second?"

I scowled, more from the way her voice hurt my ears than the words itself.

"I'll have the bread only, thanks," I replied scathingly, still studying the pacing shadow.

"Very well," she rose and took the tray bearing the water away. "You will give me your answer soon enough."

The door clanged shut. I heard the guard acknowledge the woman as she left. I went back to my vomiting.


	37. Part One-The Thirty Seventh

The reply to his letter came promptly, barely one day after he sent the messenger galloping madly across the drawbridge. I had bite the inside of my cheek to keep me from showing delight. He gave away an entire roll of parchment, and received only two scribbled words:

_You lose._

He locked himself into his study, and threw a giant tantrum. Sounds of books sailing through the air and hitting the wall, splitting the shelves and scattering ink pots could be heard even from my cell underground.

What threw me off was the way _she_ acted, however. Right after she saw the way his face changed from white, to green, to purple, she disappeared. I thought she had run back to her family, but apparently not, for she emerged a couple of hours later with a suspicious knapsack slung across her shoulder.

But this is the second day, and time is running short. I doubt he would grant me a second favor and extend the time again.


	38. Part One-The Thirty Eighth

**(100 continued)**

You led me through narrow alleyways, twisting around in all sorts of directions. We passed by numerous unheard of inns and shady stores, pinching our noses as we stumbled across spoiled food that spilled from overflowing bins, and stopped, at last, in front of a lone grey wall that blocked off an entire section of a lane.

"This holiday," you panted, still holding onto my hand, "let's go visit the lake I always tell you about."

I envisioned that peaceful, grand lake surrounded by giant rocks and foliage. And then I thought about the little truth we'd squeezed from numerous hours of research.

"Yes, let's," I agreed, giving his hand a little squeeze. "For now, though, we need to go visit her."

We pulled the hidden pendant from beneath each of our robes, and pressed it against the third brick from the centre. The entire wall rippled, revealing itself as an illusion. It faded to a lone wooden door, complete with a dragon-head knocker and a phoenix wing handle. I knocked twice in quick succession, and turned the handle at the same time.

She sat in the exact position we left her in, raising her head slightly in greeting.

The room was well furnished, seeing as both of them weren't limited in funds. I had provided the wall and the design of the door. I'll admit that the dragon and phoenix weren't absolutely necessary, but I liked a bit of grandeur for what I named "The Room Which Plots".

I was never good at naming things.

The first attack came not long ago, and word of our nightly disappearance into empty classrooms clutching books spread like wildfire throughout the entire school. Most people dismissed our absence as a mere study group, nothing to be worried about, but a several few had their own conclusions.

It wasn't safe, keeping our research in the castle. Not when sides were beginning to be taken, and lines being drawn. Besides, our research was starting to bear fruit. Fruit that could either poison or fill our starvation.

"I have it," she breathed quietly, even though the room was completely soundproofed and private, "the location."

We had stopped researching about Aion, realizing, once again, we had headed in the wrong direction. I suggested she delve into her ancestry on her father's side instead, since they won the auction to the lands. What emerged was extremely interesting, and opened several doors previously unnoticed. Around the same time the last Tempas Touched was banished from the village and died, a young girl from the Parkinsons' family had disappeared too. Her parents wrote it away as a sudden death, falling ill to poison, but no gravestone marked her passing in the family graveyard. Her parents, in their letters and diary accounts, simply ceased to mention her, speaking only of their other two children.

"Scandal," your friend had declared. "It must be, for everything to be clammed up so tightly."

From that little interesting tidbit, we scoured archives documenting household staff who worked for the last Tempas Touched, and read that a girl, whose name was never written down, found employment there under a murky recruitment process. When her master fled, the servants were disbanded and every one of them found work at some other household. Everybody but her.

We guessed that she had run away with him, and, perhaps, became pregnant with his child. But he soon died, and when the Parkinsons came sniffing around for the land, she disappeared.

But that took a backseat when you discovered that the temple, which was really a castle, had an unusual altar for Tempas. A giant clock once stood in the centre of the courtyard that had multiple hands and ticked erratically. The servants claimed that the master of the house would kneel at its foot twice a day, and occasionally he would rise declaring he received a message from Tempas.

"The location of the clock," she said breathlessly, standing up stretch, "it's where the easy wing is now. If mother hasn't redecorated, I believe that the clock is where the giant oriental rug lies."

She grinned, rather uncharacteristically for her. "I'm off to buy some celebratory drinks. Requests?"

"Butterbeer," I said.

"Firewhisky," you said.

"Three butterbeers it is," she said, and shut the door behind her.

I waited until the handle glowed green before tugging on your tie, forcing you to lean in towards me. A rather goofy smile spread across your face.

"Yes?" You asked innocently.

" 'To the Heaven and back'," I whispered, "That offer still stands?"

You wrapped your arms around my waist and lifted so I sat on top of the desk. Tilting my blushing face so my eyes stared into yours, you pressed against me as my legs wrapped around your hips. I didn't need you to say anything; we both felt your answer.


	39. Part One-Th Thirty Ninth

He sat still upon his chair, not saying a word until I finished for the day.

"It seems your tale brings favor to both of us," he said finally, raising my hopes dearly.

I struggled to remain composure, thinking furiously. Have I finally achieved what I came here for?

"Without your sweetened words, my little prisoner, it seems I would have fallen prey," he scratched his cheek with a thumb, "I don't like to owe anybody. State your price."

"My price…" I licked my lips, eager to blurt it all out. But I knew, I knew that it was not yet time.

"If you give me permission, my lord, I would like to tell you after the three days. Please," I said, begging without groveling.

He nodded, "very well. Tomorrow, then."

The girl darted into the room, clearing away our plates and cups. "Orders, my lord?"

"Loyalty to me," he answered without hesitation, "serve me well, and I will save you from your family."

Tears flooded down her cheeks, and I was almost fooled into thinking it was just another act. But I recognized that desperate, gaunt look on her face, and I knew that she was truly grateful.

"Yes," she whispered, "You have my loyalty, my lord."

She escorted me back to my room- the one I was in before I was thrown into the underground cell. The one that we shared, the one with the cabinet of books.

It was much, much later when I heard her turn over and mumble, "thank you. I won't tell him, I promise."

I slept well that night.


	40. Part One-The Fortieth

**(101, continued)**

You rowed both of us back to shore. Drenched, wet, and hurt, it was all we could do to not collapse right onto the smooth rock.

"A list!" You suddenly exclaimed, amidst gasps of pain. "You said you didn't know what to get me for Christmas. I want to write down a list, and you need to complete it."

"That's it?" I asked incredulously, "I demanded a rare book, and you want me to scribble answers down?"

"A bargain for you, then."

I fell silent, but knew when your mind was made up. "Fine," I retorted, "but I saw a nice cloak that-"

You groaned, "No! No nice, expensive cloaks. Answers to my list, that's all."

"Done. No regrets."

"Never," we winced a smile to each other and made our way slowly up the steep slope.

The ruins of the Parkinson manor haunted our every step. Barely two days after she prepared to go home, she received a letter informing her to remain at Hogwarts for the holidays, because her home got torched down.

Now the crumbling remains still stank heavily of smoke and damage, and even our friend, who lived there all her life, could not tell where the east wing was. We were back to square one. Again.

Strangely enough, she didn't mourn the loss of her possessions. In fact, the only time I saw sorrow cross her face was at the mention of the clock. I suspect her true home was that hidden room in Hogsmeade, where she was staying at now.

We stopped to rest, and, very quietly, you cast a muffling spell around us.

"Not now," I sighed.

"What-no! That's not- No! I mean, it would be awesome, but-but that wasn't what I had in mind!" You spluttered.

"Joking," I raised my hands in laughter.

"I was going to tell you this back at home, but… it might not be safe."

I stopped laughing at once.

"While I was trying to find you, back there…I saw something that I hadn't really paid attention to before. A tunnel."

I swallowed. "Tunnel? Under water?"

You sighed heavily, "Yes, and-this is the important part- I think it leads to the Zabini river."

"Oh Merlin," I breathed, "Oh Merlin…this means-if it does, and if-"

"If there is another tunnel from the Zabini river to the Greengrass lake, and then from there to the Nott's lake, which leads to ours-"

"-the tunnels wrap right around the hill. The original river is still there! And-"

"-And from the position of the original river, we can work out the location of the old clock, since we have the plans of the castle-"

"-Then everything we've done wouldn't go to waste! This is fantastic news!" I planted multiple kisses all across his face, not caring that it was covered in scratches and tasted of lake.

"We need to be careful. Once we find out where the old clock was, things will take a drastic turn."

"Time…" I mused, "but is she sure-?"

"All evidence makes it appear so."

I hugged him tightly, and undid the spell. Suddenly thoughts of hot chocolate washed away, for nothing made me happier than this realization.

The rough outline was sketched in- all that remained was some careful details and willing characters.


	41. Part One-The Forty First

I took a break, claiming I needed a little bit of time to refresh my memory. But in reality, I paused because I saw the stricken look on their faces, and knew that although it may haven't been my friend's home, it was very well theirs.


	42. Part One-The Forty Second

**(326)**

We had not been together ever since war was officially declared. It would be impossible for us to continue pretending that it didn't touch us- we lost that naivety when my best friend's face was plastered all over the community, declared the face of my side, and when He took up permanent residence inside your home, we had run out of excuses for you to not live there.

For months we stopped communicating, knowing the consequences if our letters were to be intercepted. But war was a demanding mistress, and battle even more.

People we loved and respected died. One by one by one. The first to be captured and tortured to death was my beloved Professor McGonagall, who revealed nothing, not even when they peeled her fingernails back one finger at a time.

We received her body in a cardboard box.

The next to be taken was Professor Slughorn. He tried to remain neutral, and refused to join Him. His punishment was a quick death; a flash of green. It was His gift to his old Potions teacher. Horace was not given back to us, despite our pleads for his body. Instead, he was burned and his ashes scattered from the window. We all watched as the dark dust that once was a cunning matchmaker fluttered and carried away by the wind.

Professor Sprout was injured during battle, and died a slow death from infection. None of her herbs could save her. We buried her in a tear stained coffin, right next to her good friend and colleague Minerva. My Gryffindor friend, who loved her as a son would, dug the grave. After the funeral, he slept in his sleeping bag next to her gravestone for every night since.

Professor Binns, the ghost we thought would be the last of us standing, vanished one sunny afternoon. He claimed he had a massive headache, which none of us believed, and went outdoors to clear his head. He never came back. The Gryffindor ghost bowed his head at the news and whispered a eulogy, for he knew that Binns had left this despicable world at last for a better one.

The lost of these people whom I had always looked up to, and had seemed so strong and indestructible to me, took its toll. I ate less and less, and while I had a healthily protruding belly before, it soon shrunk down showing jutting ribs. I cut my long, wild hair in a fit of grief, and buried it deep into the soil. A symbol of my innocence.

I wished this infernal war would just-_end_.

And not two days after I saw a shooting star and wished, I received a note. A note which raised my hopes dangerously, making me giddy with sudden pleasure.


	43. Part One-The Forty Third

**(349)**

The preparations were almost complete. My carefully chosen battle gear lay on top of my sleeping bag, ready to be put on. It had seemed years when I first wore it, but careful counting revealed that it had been less than two years. The eve before the battle, I slept with it curled against my body, my bare hands tracing the delicate lace, marveling at how well the blue color remained despite the poor circumstances I'd stored it in.

I thought about the slippers, too, but decided against it. It was already a huge wager I was betting our lives on, by wearing that flimsy dress. Slippers would give me away. I settled on my trusty, well-worn boots scrubbed cleaned multiple times of blood and grime.

The days leading up to, what we hoped was, the first stage of many, I was sent bits and pieces of information. It was only after the third letter that I realized that there wasn't two sides to this war, but three. His side, my side, and _our_ side.

I reviewed the plans and drawings carefully, storing the precious vials into a pocket I had sown into the dress. Whether or not they would be found, depended very much on both my acting and theirs.

I had made so many promises these few days that my head was spinning to remember them.

I promised my best friends I will abort if my life was in danger.

I promised our side that I will succeed.

I promised you that I will come back into your arms.

The battle was about to start. I shrugged on the dress and covered it with a mud-stained cloak. Everything needed to go according to plan.


	44. Part One-The Forty Fourth

**(****370, continued)**

As I spun gently down into the deep abyss, my mind finally cleared.

Your careful, strict, training took over and I gave two quick kicks. I tore away the pocket that clung to my waist, mourning for one second that the dress could no longer be saved, and took out one vial, the one containing gillyweed. I stuffed the foul, slimy plant into my mouth and waited for the effects to take place.

It was lucky your father was the one who tortured me, not Him. Or, more likely, your father placed himself strategically so he _was_ chosen. Either way, thanks to his meticulous detail to my face, the little pocket and its contents was never revealed. The little needle stings to my face hurt-but we all knew that your father was skilled at ancient Chinese medicine. I think he managed to reduce the wrinkles around my eyes a bit. He most definitely enjoyed acting the part of the mean spirited torturer, that's for sure, complete with cliche lines and unnecessary throwing of the chair.

I swam, propelling myself, trying to find that tunnel you described to me. Your mother had given me two choices: Zabini's river, or your lake. Although the river was most direct, I was more familiar with your lake and therefore easier to navigate.

The dress she gave me on the day we meet for tea was my show of good faith. It was my promise to her that I would follow the plan completely.

I found the opening, which was concealed behind a fake rock, and swam through. According to the instructions, there would be another opening around a quarter of the way into the tunnel, one which lead to several stone stairs and a hidden trap door. A door which lead to an underground wine cellar that used to be a cell.

From that room, it was easy to follow the landmarks given to me. The burnt remains of the rug still lay on that spot. I knelt down and took out the second vial. The one that contained two drops of our friend's blood.

Tempas Touched blood.

Two drops was all that was needed. Two drops onto the stone that used to belong to an altar, a great, grand clock that changed time according to its master's wishes.

And this one wanted to send me back to the last acknowledged Tempas Touched, the one with training and a grasp of his powers, the one who had the answers we sought.


	45. Part One-The Forty Fifth

I fell silent, my tale at long last finished.

"My price," I said, "is you to tell me the future."

He gave a bark of laughter. "You don't want to change your past? To send you back to prevent the war?"

I shook my head, "changing the past often causes dire consequences. What is done is done. As much as I want to save my loved ones-" images of the professors smiling floated tantalizing in front of my eyes, "-it is more important to know the future."

He leaned forward, his eyebrows drawn together into a stern V. "You understand that the future is not yet in place? That what I tell you now, could very well be useless once you return?"

"Yes. But as Tempas Touched, as the one who bears her mark and speaks to her, you have the gift to see all possible futures. It is up to us to make the actions and decide which path to take, but you are able to see the choices."

He turned to the girl, the runaway Parkinson daughter, the one he now knew would bear his daughter. It was a cruel fate, having the ability to see everybody's futures but your own. It was interesting and heartbreaking to see that he could see so far, and yet not realize how closely he was to death. The Parkinsons had been plotting his downfall ever since they sent their daughter in to become a spy. Only she fell in love and tore away from their carefully laid plans.

I thought of my friend, the product of a union between a daughter of the Tempas Touched and a Parkinson. I thought about this fierce, young girl before me, who despite her family's rage and disappointment upon her, fought and won recognition and power for her child and their children. How, after a cruel past, made her name greater than the Parkinsons.

I had come to respect her, even though I still hated with a ice cold determination. When I emerged, choking, disoriented from my travel to time, she discovered my shaking figure and threw me into the dungeons.

It took her an entire day to finally inform her master that he had a prisoner.

At first he was curious, treating me with grace and manners, giving me a room and a handmaiden and feasts I could never finish. He wanted me to tell my tale, so fond of stories was he. It was her idea to write down my memories as a letter dedicated to you, and although it seemed a good idea to me then, I know now it was simply to trick me into revealing more about myself.

When it was obvious his patience wore out, he threatened me with marriage or death, then led me back down to an underground cell he'd refurbished-barely. He left, at odd times, and I had thought that he didn't live here as his fathers had before him. But it turned out he didn't stay in his home for long periods because he had to settle riots, had to calm the people who had turned against him, people who believed that he lied about being Tempas Touched, people who had listened to, and was manipulated by, the Parkinsons.

I was careful to tell my story so that I held his attention as best as I could, drawing him deeper and deeper into my story until his need to satisfy his curiosity won out against a more practical decision of throwing me out.

The minutes ticked by, and at last my three days was officially up. I waited, breath held as he knelt at the foot of the clock and prayed Tempas would grant me my wish.

My friend's ancestress grasped me by the elbow and propelled me to a more comfortable seat. "I did not know," she said quietly, not wanting to disturb him, "that a daughter from my blood is friends with you."

Her smile was contagious, and I soon found myself in a better mood. "Farm girl," I said slowly, "how did you know my name?"

"An educated guess," she admitted, "I knew that you were a witch, since you showed no surprise when I cleaned your mess up with magic, and also your face bore a strange resemblance to a merchant's wife who visited this wretched village when I was younger. Her parents operated a farm, and their neighbors called them Grangers. I thought you might be kin to them, and took a stab in the dark."

I laughed, "What an original tease-name," I mocked, "Farm girl. You're worse than I am."

"Ice cold," she shot back, and rolled back giggling. I stared at her cheerful face, startled to find her younger than me.

"I thought you at least twenty," I said, "But-"

"I'll be fifteen this year. I don't look it, do I? Being a daughter of the Parkinson family ages one fast."

The thought sobered me up. "My friend grew up fast. Faster than any of us."

She nodded, "a Parkinson for sure," she gave an embarrassed glance at his face, "and an Aion too."

"Aion? Is that his name?"

"His given name. Tempas is the family name. It used to be something else, but when they moved into this temple they renamed their line."

"He was named after the muggle god?"

"Twice the time," she murmured, "twice the power. Even though he'll be driven out of here, his name and his blood will remain." She smiled in content. "He wanted a ceremony for us, you know, but I told him I wanted to keep up the pretense of being a servant."

"So you are married?"

"Yes."

I remembered all those books and passages I'd read and committed to memory. All of them stated Aion Tempas died unmarried, childless, and alone. Now it seemed that none was true. I had not changed anything of significance, not enough to put my friend in danger of not being born, but I had warned him of the Parkinson's treachery, and he now had time to prepare for his banishment.

Aion finally rose to his feet six hours later. She rushed to his side to help him. I saw the way he looked at her now, and despite all that she's done to me, I felt nothing but glad that her feelings were finally mutual.

With a trembling hand, he handed me a small piece of parchment. There were only three sentences on it.

With a tired smile, he said, "It seemed victory will always be yours."

I had known that. "It's more important as to how that victory came about," I answered, studying the page, "killing one man does not make a true victory. It's his people that we want to save, to redeem. I hate fights, and I hate killing. War cannot be the only choice. Slaughter is not the way."

He bowed his head at me, this man who was almost a goddess. "Well then, you have your answer."

I shook his hand, and then hers.

"It's time for me to go home," I said softly. "But before I do… What is your name?"

She looked at me, tilting her head. "For your friend?"

I nodded.

"Viola," she replied simply.

"How suitable. My friend-your descendent- is called something very similar."

Aion hissed as he bit deep into his finger, drawing blood. He squeezed two drops onto a handkerchief and handed it to me.

"I'll have the pyre stripped down," he said seriously, "and return the dress to Viola."

"Me?" Viola squeaked, "But-"

"It was made for you," he said, kissing the top of her head. "Only you. Although I admit it was fun watching you seethe with jealousy."

Their embrace was the last image I saw before I vanished into the time stream.

It was done. I could go home.

I could go back to _you_.


	46. Part Two: One

**Part Two: Future's third**

They were waiting when Hermione floated into view. Draco's face was unreadable as they fished her unconscious body out and dumped her onto the hard rock. His parents stood stock still, as if daring themselves to make the first move.

"This," laughed Voldemort, "is what happens to those who oppose me."

As if on cue, Hermione's eyes fluttered open, but he was too self involved in his victory speech to realize she had not drowned. She was, against all odds, still alive despite being left in the lake for two days and two nights.

Draco moved without warning, without a second thought. He interrupted the speech by unceremoniously shoving past the pale man, stepping on one foot hard as if by accident.

"You-!"

Voldemort was rendered speechless as Draco lifted Hermione into his arms tenderly, and blood-red eyes flashed with horrible anger as Mr and Mrs Malfoy followed suit, as did more than half of the people who had claimed to be his followers.

Now they stood, side against side. Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass, their families, and their allies. Pansy Parkinson was there too, holding her parents' hands with a stubborn defiance burning deep.

At a signal only visible to them, they all drew their wands.

"_Enough_," Narcissa said, "we are weary of war. How much more pureblood must be spilt before your thirst of personal vengeance is quenched? How many more loved ones must we lose to senseless battles before you all come to your senses? We are _tired_, and we choose to quit."

"Cissy!" Shrieked Bellatrix, "You traitor! You filthy blood-traitor! You taint the name of Black with your mad women ravings!"

"No, sister," Narcissa said firmly, "I did not say I turned to the other side. I am simply withdrawing. I can no longer stand by and watch my husband, son, and his friends be trampled again, and again, and again."

Her simple words had a profound effect on her listeners, and although none of them declared themselves out, her speech roused an unfamiliar emotion: hope.

But if a few well placed words were enough to stop this war, then the war wouldn't have started in the first place. Most had made their decision before the first curse was fired, and they were not willing to switch sides at the drop of a wizard's hat.

"You will pay," Voldemort said quietly, venom spitting from his mouth, "you will _all _pay for this." And then, abruptly, he gave a small laugh. A laugh that fooled nobody but perhaps his pet snake, who curled around his leg lovingly.

"I applaud you all for this entertaining show you have put on for us, Narcissa. It is true, then, that the Malfoys make a fantastic host. Now, let us walk back to your lovely home, and we shall deal with this unscripted event at a later time." He swept his arm out invitingly, and the doubt that Narcissa planted so carefully, was uprooted at once. She knew that they had lost this small battle of words. It was only to be expected.

But her goal was accomplished, for Voldemort and his loyal followers had their full attention on her. They didn't see how Hermione suddenly vanished and was just as quickly replaced by an identical looking -only dead- person. They didn't see how twigs snapped as if some invisible being stepped on them on their rush to the other side of the lake. They didn't smell the putrid aroma of Polyjuice potion that Draco tipped into the lake. They heard what they didn't want to hear, and saw nothing of importance.

Most of all, neither of them realized that Hermione had been hugging a pile of parchments beneath her robes, when they levitated her from the waters, and that it had disappeared.


	47. Part Two: Two

Hermione ran as fast as she could- and wondered on her way back whether she should retire from this war business and become a muggle movie star. She certainly had the talent for acting.

The transfer had gone without a hitch. Of course it did, Hermione herself, along with Pansy, had hatched the plan. The idea to subtly suggest drowning her as the method of execution was inspired by the chess competition. Underestimating your opponents was a deadly mistake. Believing in rumors spread from doubtful sources was another.

Her feet glided softly across the grass, her breaths coming in short pants. The Invisibility Cloak fluttered behind her, but she was already too far away for anybody to notice. Those who mattered, anyway.

"Hermione?"

Laughing, she shed the cloak and jumped right into the embrace of her two best friends.

"I'm back!" she shouted gleefully, "I'm back, and so are you two!"

"Mind you," Ron muttered, "We encountered some unexpected difficulties."

"Hah!" Harry snorted, "_Difficulties_. They were more like massive pains in the backsides. The ones that make you crawl up and moan for _seven hours straight_."

Hermione pulled back and saw what Harry was referring to. Ron's signature fiery red hair was shaven off, revealing a shiny bald head.

"So smooth," she teased, running her fingers over it. "What happened?"

They moved inside, deciding that the questions fired at them from all sides could wait. As Hermione's room was closest, they walked there and locked the door. Twice.

"Promise you won't tell anybody," Ron raised his eyebrows in a frightening seriousness.

"I promise," Hermione said solemnly, "I promise I won't tell just anybody."

Not noticing her choice of wording, Ron sat cross legged on the ground, patting the spaces in front of him. Harry and Hermione gave each other an amused glance before obeying him.

"Before I start, I need to tell you that the horcrux was a bloody bitch," Ron said bluntly.

"It was a tiny goblet," Harry demonstrated by holding up two fingers, "just this big."

"Shut up," Ron grumbled, "Or I'm not telling it. Anyway, so we finally got past the security at Gringotts, and get this: there's about a billion identical looking goblets in the vault. So I did the smart thing and looked carefully at every one of them, while Harry stood there gawking like the idiot he really is. I finally saw the right one-you can't ever replicate things perfectly after all- I grabbed it and decided to test to see whether Mouldy Voldy had laid his paws on it."

Harry couldn't contain it any longer. "He stuck the goblet upside down on his head!" he blurted out through gasps of laughter, "he strut around like he was the King of all the little people."

Hermione let out a giggle, and felt all the knots and tension from her ordeal release all at once. Her best friends knew how to cheer her up.

"So, let me guess. The goblet, being an actual horcrux, burned his hair."

Harry pointed at his nose, unable to continue talking because he was rolling around on the floor in a complete fit.

"All of it!" Ron moaned, "Harry just stood there and_ laughed _at me before he finally knocked the thing off with the bloody sword!"

Hermione leaned over to run her hand over his bald head again. "I'm sure Pansy will get used to it," she said offhandedly.

All at once, the atmosphere tightened.

"Hermione…" Harry warned, "Now's not the best time."

"I know," She bit her lip, "I'm sorry- it-it just slipped out."

Ron fell silent, but he didn't scowl like he used to. "Did you see her?" He asked finally.

Hermione nodded. "She was there with her parents."

"I see," Ron replied. His expression was thoughtful, and she felt a small spark of hope.

"Enough about us," Harry said. "We got all the horcruxes, and all that's left is the bitter old man and his snake girlfriend. What about you? What happened?"

"Well, I went back in time, as planned," Hermione said, as if chatting about going to the market. "I met Aion Tempas and Viola Parkinson."

"Explain," Ron said tightly, "My bald head is going to spit fire if you stop there."

"That'd be the sight," Harry muttered.

Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon telling her tale, while her audience sat in an awed silence. When she finished, at long last, Harry unlocked the door, sending an entire crowd of guilty looking people holding Extendable Ears tumbling into the room.

"Well, that makes things easier," Hermione stood up and brushed her waterlogged cloak down, "No need to repeat myself again."

"We received word," Ginny said, her expression serious. "The Malfoys are confined to the house, and Voldy's not happy with them at all. I'm sorry, Hermione."

She shrugged, "It was expected. He could have hardly patted them on the back for a job well done. At least they aren't harmed in anyway. Was there news from Pansy?"

"She said she's read everything and wants to discuss it with you. Unfortunately-"

"-She's confined to the Malfoy Manor as well?"

"They all are," Ginny sighed, "The Notts, Zabinis, Greengrasses… everybody who knew what was going on."

"This isn't good," Harry started pacing, "He now knows that they can't be trusted."

"That is actually an opportunity for us," Lupin smiled, "Now that the Malfoys are no longer within his inner circle, nothing they say will have of any importance to him. It is his nature to immediately ignore those he considers beneath him, and to disagree with those he cannot trust. We can work that to our advantage."

Moody thumped into his room, his glass eye whizzing about excitedly. "You got a plan, Granger?"

Hermione tilted her head, a small smile stretching on her face. "Perhaps. But first I need to get dressed into proper clothes."


	48. Part Two: Three

Draco leaned back against his chair, sighing deeply. He had just finished reading the papers Hermione had smuggled to him for the third time, and still-_still_ he had no idea how she managed to write all of this with an almost-god breathing down her back. His fingers absentmindedly traced the same words over and over again.

_Funny, _he thought, his lips curled into a small smirk, _how I don't remember most of what she's written._

He could see where some of the passages gained their inspiration from: the boat incident_ had_ actually happened- but it wasn't Hermione who had fallen in, it was _Pansy_. Hermione had been too busy trying to read the maps by wand light, all the while bickering with him to "row more towards the _left_, you idiot!"

He winced at the more romantic parts of her story, wondering if he would ever stoop so low as to say the words " I _love_ her" to that Weasel. He would have approached the entire confrontation in an entirely different way: curse first, punch second, then laugh maniacally with a witty retort. Or something. Definitely not be so stupid as to be force-fed veritaserum in the front of a class filled with entertainment-starved teenagers.

But… he couldn't help but smile at her older memories- the one about them sharing detention together, washing socks. That had happened, but not until sixth year. And when she had first set foot inside Malfoy Manor… the look of envy on her face still made him chortle. A pity Pothead and Weasel, who had trailed in after her like lost puppy dogs didn't notice the expensive door knobs like she did. The chess match, the promise that he would teach her swimming while they were in the Hospital Wing…they were actual memories too.

Bu that hidden room at Hogsmeade?_ Utter tosh_. How can _anybody_ worth their salt as a wizard not realize what a lone brick wall in the middle of a road was? It practically screamed DOORWAY TO SECRET HIDEAWAY! Their research had been done in somewhere far less grand- in a hole carved underground near the sewage pipes.

He could probably go through all the pieces of parchment and correct everything, but all that'd be left of the original would amount to about three sentences per page. But he knew why she had muddled everything up on purpose: time was, after all, very dangerous for mortals to be tampering with. She had tried to make everything sound as truthful as possible, and had merged people together into one character, to minimize the damage if he_ did_ find out she was lying.

There was a knock at his door: Pansy. Carefully moving the papers out of view, he opened it to admit her.

"Have you figured it out yet?" She asked in her usual arrogant voice as she rushed past him.

"What's 'it'? There's nothing _to_ figure out," he shut the door and slumped back down onto his chair, dragging the papers back onto the table.

Pansy tutted, "and here I thought Hermione's intelligence would rub off onto you."

Draco's face was carefully blank. "Why would you think that?"

She laughed- a vicious, cruel, I-know-something-you-should-know laugh. "I think you know what I mean. It's obvious, isn't it? The way she portrayed you as her love interest."

"Who else could she have chosen? Pothead? _Weasel? _Please. I'm the only eligible, attractive guy she knows of who's still _alive_."

"She could have left the whole 'I heart the enemy' plot line out and _still _have managed to get it."

"Not likely," he retorted, "sympathy is a powerful tool. Didn't you read about Viola and Aion's scandalous affair? They thought writing a letter would make her spill every dirty secret, but they played right into Granger's hands."

Pansy fell silent, her hand brushing against the soft fabric of his duvet cover. "Viola," she said softly, "do you think she knew?"

"That what Hermione fed to Aion were lies? Yes. I think even _he_ knew."

"Not that," she waved a hand in dismissal, "I meant did she know that Hermione would be sent back to her time by me?"

Draco snorted, "how is that possible? If anybody would know, it would be _Aion_, not Viola."

"Pansy…" she tasted her own name, "Viola..it can't be just a coincidence. My mother's and grandmother's and _her_ mother's name were named after stars."

"Maybe when your mother was pregnant with you, she saw a pansy and decided it fitted you," Draco suggested, "I heard that Weasel's attempt to stand up to his brothers was laughable at best."

She scowled. "You're lucky that somebody even had a love interest _based_ on you."

"I'm fine, thanks," Draco said in mock horror, "There is no such thing as 'true luurve'. There's only two options in this world: you either live long enough to realize it's nonexistence, or you die believing a lie."

Then he remembered what happened between Pansy and Ron. "Oh Merlin," he said hastily, "I didn't mean-"

"You meant_ exactly_ what you said," Pansy said stiffly. Draco couldn't think of anything to say. An apology wouldn't suffice in this case.

Her expression suddenly turned devious, "Althoughyou seemed _especially _eager to rescue Hermione from the clutches of evil today."

"Only because she was waking up and nobody was doing anything!" He argued.

"You just keep telling yourself that," Pansy patted his shoulder and made to open the door. "Oh, and please use that brain inside of your enormous head for once? Figure out Hermione's message."

She left and slammed the door behind her, leaving behind a confused Malfoy scratching his head.


	49. Part Two: Four

Hermione wandered around the empty hallways, enjoying the brief reprieve from war. Moments of peace like these were getting rarer by the day, and she had learned to never take these for granted again.

A blush grew on her cheeks as she recalled what she had written during her captivity. She could have made up a completely different character for her purpose and yet she had used that damn _Draco Malfoy_ of all people. That pretentious, stuck up brat, whose only good quality was that his mother was a nice woman who controlled her husband.

It grew cold, and she wrapped her cloak around her. Unwillingly, her body remembered the way Malfoy had lifted her tenderly from the wet, hard ground, his warm grey eyes worriedly scanning her body for injuries. She tried to bury the memory up by piling up recollections of his school-boy taunts on top of it. But the image remained stronger than ever, and she thought she felt her stone-cold heart beat again…


	50. Part Two: Five

"Well?"

Pansy was back. Again. Draco decided to let the door swing shut in her annoying face, ignoring her muffled angry splutters as he strode back to his desk.

His robes had a funny smell to it, and his hair was oily and stuck up in all directions. But that didn't matter, for once, because he _still couldn't figure it out_.

Time was running short. Voldemort held more and more secret meetings down in the dining room, banning everybody he no longer trusted. Which meant only about five people were allowed in. What made it worse was that every time a meeting finished, they would emerge with an air of triumph all the while narrowing their eyes in a frustratingly arrogant way when they passed by.

Pansy insisted that Hermione had left a message, but wouldn't say anything more than that. Draco suspected the two witches had a little competition of their own- whoever infuriated Draco until he tore his hair out first would win the prize. Trouble was, he couldn't decide whether Hermione or Pansy was in the lead. Both seem to be able to make his blood boil at such a temperature, he constantly imagined himself walking around with steam blowing out of his ears.

"Draco! Let. Me. In."

He sighed, knowing that she wouldn't cease her knocking for a long, long time. He covered his ears and hummed the theme song of _The Big Bang Theory_. For a muggle acting production, it was insanely addictive. And he had Hermione to blame for introducing him to it.

"Draco, please!"

He froze. _Please?_ Pansy hadn't used that word ever since she found out about her lineage and broke up with Weasel. He still didn't know why she did it though-not that he was complaining of course.

Draco let her in, and she collapsed almost at once onto his bed, flinging herself onto the mattress.

"Thanks," she opened an eyelid and peeked at him. "Wake me up when you make a breakthrough."

Silently cursing her with every profane word he knew, Draco let the door swing shut and continued to look for that damn message that, for all he knew, didn't exist.


	51. Part Two: Six

Moody knocked at her door. This was the third time in two days he had done so.

"Soon," was all she said, before escorting him outside.

The clock hanging on her wall ticked loudly as she stared at it. For some reason, all she did lately was sit in bed and study the clock. It seemed to amuse her at any length, because she would give out sudden barks of laughter at odd times. Harry and Ron thought that time traveling might have addled her attic somehow, but were too busy to stop by and shake her out of this clock-staring nonsense.

It was sweltering hot, hotter than she had ever remembered autumn to be. But outside cicadas sung their songs and crickets chirped greetings to one another. It was as if nature itself was revolting against Voldemort and his plans.

She lay back, her arms crossed behind her head, and wished fervently that Draco would hurry up and discover her message.


	52. Part Two: Seven

"Pansy?"

His voice rose barely above a whisper, but she had cracked open an eyelid at once.

"Yeah?"

"I think…" he licked his dry lips, "I think I know what the message is."

She stood beside him in a flash. "What is it?" She asked, almost breathlessly. When he didn't answer immediately, she paced around the room, trying her hardest to bite her tongue and not snap her frustration at him.

He was frozen before the papers with its scribbled words, all lying in a heap haphazardly on his ink-splattered desk. Quill nubs littered the floor around him, and a small book lay open with a false innocence, it's pages marked with ripped pieces of parchment.

"Do you remember how Hermione and I almost failed how Muggle Studies paper?"

The question startled her so much, she collapsed onto his bed with an enormous sigh.

"Really, Draco? What does this-"

"-Everything," he said quietly. "_Everything_."

"Well, I don't," she sounded pained, and he knew why. That paper was what brought her and Ron together, and though their time had been sweet and good, it was brought abruptly to a bitter end.

"We couldn't decide on which book to use," he sat down beside her, and the mattress creaked under their combined weight. "I wanted something simple, easy. She, of course, wanted some bloody difficult novel written in archaic English."

She waited.

"She numbered her accounts-her little story," he reached over and shoved the lot into her hands, "See?"

Pansy saw, but didn't understand, "she did this so things could be arranged in chronological order."

"Well, yes-but what was the point if nearly everything was made up? She could have just wrote things in order anyway. Why number and jumble them all up?"

Pansy glanced at the book, "then-" she swallowed, "then the numbers, they are-"

"-The message," he finished. "The numbers correspond to words within the book. The book she insisted we study. The ancient text that must've been written before Aion Tempas' time. The book name she even_ underlined _for us- Draconian Princess. She's hinted at how she might have had access to it. The cabinet with books that Viola had. It would have been so easy, when Viola was sent out while Aion was visiting, and right after he left, to have swiped the book."

He pulled the book onto his lap, "The numbers she wrote at the beginning of each account are page numbers."

Pansy leaned over and read. "They're poems!" She exclaimed, "an entire story made up of individual poems."

"And they're all titled," he said. He glanced over at his wand to check that the anti-eavesdropping spell was still strong. "Her message is concealed within the titles."

Pansy flipped to the page where the first bookmark was, and slowly pieced the message together.

"Draconian."

"The Slaying."

"Triumph over the Monster."

"The Princess and Her Knights."

"The Great Decoy."

"The Rebellion."

"Are you_ quite _sure this is the actual message?" Pansy said doubtfully, closing the book. There were other bookmarks remaining, but she knew even if she read the entire message, she wouldn't understand.

His knuckles were white. "Yes."

"But what does it all mean?"

"It means," Draco swallowed, "That_ I _have to kill Him."


	53. Part Two: Eight

Harry stared as Ginny read out Pansy's message. The curtains rippled from some unseen breeze.

"What?"

Hermione guided him to an empty seat. "It must be Draco," she said, gracefully.

"But the Prophecy-"

"-Still rings true."

Hermione sighed. "Aion gave me three futures. One is already impossible. The other-" she shuddered, "too much sacrifices. The third is not ideal-"

"-_Ideal_!" Ron snorted, "We hand over our whole bloody fate to that shitty little ferret!"

"-But it's the only way," Hermione silenced him.

"What were the other two?" Lupin asked, wearily seating himself next to her.

"The first one was that the battle took place at Hogwarts. Neville kills the snake, and Harry kills _him_. But-"

"-Hogwarts has already been destroyed," Lupin sighed. "I guess when we forced Hermione to stay within its walls, we already forfeited that path."

"The second-almost everybody dies," she whispered, "The snake-his spy- overhears our plans to siege Malfoy Manor. We are ambushed. The last ones standing are him and Harry. Harry wins. But he-"

Harry's lips tightened, "probably dies because of his injuries and nobody can heal him?"

She gave a half nod. "Sort of." But she wouldn't say more. It didn't matter, anyway, since Draco knew what was expected of him. She hoped.

"But why _him_?" Ron crossed his arms in disgust.

"In terms of political power, the Malfoys are at the top of the ladder. If the sole heir rebels, then what would happen? Who would they follow? The rest of the followers would start to question the why-_why _would he do such a thing? _Why _was _he_ not strong enough to survive an attack from a nineteen year old? Why was it the purest of the pureblood, and not that half-blood they had lost so many friends and family for trying to destroy who killed their leader? _Why?_ Most of them are already questioning these things already, but are unwilling to act. _This_ will be the impetus that tips the scale."

"Yes, but he won't succeed, not if the snake still lives." Moody clunked towards them, his displeasure evident on his scarred face.

"The snake," Hermione smiled, "Is our Decoy."

She pulled out her wand and cursed in the direction of the curtains. They split open, smoking, revealing a locked window, and a hissing Nagini.


	54. Part Two: Nine

When Voldemort saw what Hermione had sent him, his entire face hardened. He was not one to throw tantrums, or yell, or rage at the followers kneeling at his feet. But he did flick his wand, almost absentmindedly, and the green curse struck a sobbing, pleading young wizard. He didn't even blink as the wizard fell and died, didn't even hear the sweat rolling down the foreheads of those who remained.

He stood up from his chair, and Wormtail hastened to clear away the untouched dishes. The package, and its note, was given a wide berth.

"Out," Voldemort said, his voice a deathly quiet.

They all scampered away. None stopped to remove the dead body.

He reached out and stroked the fang of his beloved, and an emotion flickered deep within his red eyes.

Then he tightened his grip. The fang cracked into dust.

"_More to come_," the note read. "_Signed: Hermione Granger._"


	55. Part Two: Ten

Draco rushed to his bathroom, retching up the remains of his breakfast.

"Crabbe," he croaked. His cheeks were dry- he no longer had tears to shed, but the pain gnawed at his heart so deeply he couldn't breathe.

Pansy just stood, her gaze unwavering. When she heard who had been killed, she bowed her head and whispered a eulogy. Then she had sneaked into the Dining Hall and transfigured his body into a bone and buried him secretly in the backyard, right beside Millicent Bulstrode and Marcus Flint.

"This is why the war must end," she said, her eyes fierce with vengeance. "I will do my part, and so will you." Then she softened, and helped him to his feet. "Draco," she said, almost gently, "it's okay. Go and talk to her."

He froze. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled.

"Of course you do," she said harshly. "Don't be a child and admit it to yourself and her. I don't believe that all her stories were made up. She based it on_ truth_."

Draco's mind eye flickered to that scene that he still dreamed about- the one where they danced and danced under the glittering icicles. The one where he first felt that jolt. The one where his arms felt awfully cold and empty when she stomped away, sulking in her corner. How it hurt him that she didn't enjoy it at all. He had thought he hid it well, but of course Pansy knew. She was his best friend.

"You thought she was someone not worthy of your respect," Pansy reminded him, "but then she beat you in chess. And then she made the Lord fear her. And then she did the impossible. If you let her slip away, Draco, you will never forgive yourself. She knows it, and now you must too. Can you not see how she still has feelings for you?"

Draco buried his face in his arms, and Pansy left, shutting the door with a small click. Then, when he was sure she was gone, he reached out between the gap behind his bed and the wall, and tugged out a piece of old and yellowed parchment that was carefully pieced together with spellotape.

"The List," he read, and a smile quirked at the corners of his mouth, "of Questions for Hermione Know-It-All, and What Goes On Inside Her Granger Brain."

The answers were there, scribbled hastily. Draco read it once, then twice, and folded it inside his robes, right over his heart.


	56. Part Two: Eleven

Voldemort's reply was swift and short.

Hermione stepped over a pile of debris, and stood, quite still, in the middle of the ruined room.

_Lucky_, she thought to herself, calming down with huge gulping breaths. _He tore down a building. Just that. Buildings can be rebuilt. People can't. Mum and Dad are safe._

For now.

She heard footsteps approaching, but made no move to defend herself. She knew that her best friends were clearing the damage up for her. She knew that she should help them, should at least rummage through the black and burned and foul-smelling wreckage for anything worth keeping. She knew, but she didn't want to. Her childhood was ripped from her, it's memories stained with smoke.

Her cell phone rang, and she jumped.

"H-Hello?"

"This is G.M Insurance," a cool male voice informed her, "The police have given a full report and it seems that we are unable to process your claim. I'm sorry for your inconvenience."

She snorted. Of course. _Of course._

"I understand," she said stiffly. "That we were not insured for suicide attempts."

And before the man could reply, she hung up.

The windows had been boarded shut, and the smell of gas still remained. The police had found two muggle teenaged boys who had sent their suicide letter to the police department earlier that day, lying in the middle of the ruined house. Hermione knew that the boys weren't muggle, and they didn't commit suicide. They were thieves who had tried to steal her parents' fifty-inch television and were pawns in the game Voldemort liked to call Pay-Back.

As she strode back out of her home, her mind was made up.

Her next message would be a snake's head.


	57. Part Two: Twelve

_Nagini's petrified body lay locked inside a watery globe. At first Neville wanted to just kill it swiftly with the sword, but Moody had stopped him._

_"A hostage is very valuable," he said, "we can send very powerful statements."_

_Hermione stared at the snake's dull, reptile eyes and pulled on a pair of dragon-hide gloves. She was, after all, a dentist's daughter._

_"One tooth or two?" She muttered, and pulled._


	58. Part Two: Thirteen

As the next morning dawned, Voldemort as his most loyal followers marched out, locking the doors and windows behind him. Peering through each one was a carefully blank face. Draco was the first to pull away.

"Mother," he said, and she turned away from the window. Her expression was unreadable. They were all wonderful actresses and actors here. Even Goyle, whose eyes were still swollen from grief, was uncannily stony and still.

"Father. Everyone. We must proceed _now_. You all know that we cannot continue living our lives in fear. That we should not let this half-blood dictate who we should let live and kill. We are pure of blood, and we must not taint our hands with dirt. We must keep clean and true." He paused. "The ending is up to us, and it starts now. No more killing. No more losses."

He held up a snake's head.

"This," he said softly, in a cold voice that even he didn't recognize, "is The Rebellion."


	59. Part Two: Fourteen

They stood on opposite banks of the river. The river that still rushed red.

Voldemort saw Nagini with both fangs and his nostrils flared in anger.

"You have tricked me," he whispered, his long fingers stretching across the base of his wand. "Tricked _me_."

"All I sent you was a small preview of our little show," Hermione said, her arms wide. She bowed mockingly. "Did you like it? If you tip us handsomely we might even give you your precious snake back. Alive and whole."

Behind her, Neville stood, and behind him were dozens and dozens of armed witches and wizards, all of which wore a taunting smile upon their dirt-streaked faces. Lupin and Moody flanked Neville, expressions identical, and the Weasleys with their flaming hair all held in their grips not wands, but curious contraptions all stamped with WWW in flamboyant purple letters.

"The show," Hermione announced, "will now begin."

And then Fred and George released their hands and sent the Fireworks deep into the chests of Bellatrix and Yaxley, sending them onwards with a colorful explosion.


	60. Part Two: Fifteen

Draco led them into Pansy's room. Sweeping aside a large tapestry, he revealed a solid-looking wall. He tapped on it and a hole gaped, a hole that led deep underground.

"Hold your noses," he advised them, and jumped through.

When they emerged on the other side of the fireplace, all of them grappled for their wands and cleaned themselves. They stopped and gazed in wonder at the little room where Hermione and Pansy had planned and plotted. It was such a simple little place, with a large table and three small stools, a lone bookshelf cluttered with books, and a barely warm fireplace with a little pot of dust sitting in front of it.

"So_ this_ is how Granger and Pansy send and receive discrete messages," Lucius said, "You had a fireplace installed underground in our mansion. No doubt, wherever they are, they have a fireplace leading to here as well."

He gave a small, surprised jump and something loud crashed a head.

"War may be brewing, but people still have businesses to operate," Draco explained. "We are in Hogsmeade. The smell is the sewage pipes running not so far way to us. I do hope you'll forgive the sorry state of this room. I did try, but they refused to decorate."

Narcissa, who had been here before, reached deep into the ashes of the fireplace and read out Hermione's letter.

"They are to meet him at the Zabini river," she told them, "with the snake. We are to wait here until the others come."

As more and more people crowded inside the cramped quarters, Draco couldn't help with swell with pride. He was doing the right thing, at last, he knew it.

Blaise, Theodore, Goyle and some of his other Slytherin housemates had cleared the table and had pinned a map to it. They were reviewing the plan, committing it to memory. Goyle worked twice as hard, his beady eyes squinting in concentration, with Crabbe's family heirloom hanging around his neck.

The adults had gathered around his parents, all of them resting. They were not young anymore, and needed to gather their strength. Their silence spoke of courage and determination.

Their numbers were small, but it would be enough.

He hoped.


	61. Part Two: Sixteen

Nagini recoiled from the collision, but its watery prison deflected away the bits of singed hair and dirt that had erupted from where Bellatrix and Yaxley had stood.

They were both alive-barely. Fred and George were masters at what they do. One of the Death Eaters had shielded them just in time, as Hermione knew they would. They were all veterans of war, after all.

Now Voldemort's two strongest followers were incapable of fighting, both fainted from the impact and the shock. The twins had said that the sleeping dust they added in would knock them out for a few hours, and those who breathed it in for only a few minutes.

As more and more Death Eaters collapsed into a deep slumber, Voldemort's eyes narrowed and narrowed. But his eyes were always fixed on his beloved Nagini, and the slumps behind him didn't mean a single thing to him. They were only just his servants, nothing more.

But Nagini- she was his only friend. The only living creature alive who understood him. The only being who loved him.

He roared his retaliation, and the globe spun wildly into his hands. He split it open, and stepped back in horror.

This was not Nagini! This was not her!

The illusion faded, and a small, harmless snake stared up at him.

He hurled it deep into the bleeding river.

"_Where am I_?" He screamed, "Where is my Nagini?"

Neville reached deep into his pockets and threw the her body at him. "Dead," he said, "By Longbottom."


	62. Part Two: Seventeen

Nagini's head was stone cold, but Draco kept it in his pocket anyway. It was proof that Voldemort was now vulnerable-if he could use that word to describe the monster.

Green fire cackled and burst to life. Immediately, everybody ceased their chatter and watched as two spinning figures leapt into view.

"He knows," Ron gasped, "That Nagini is dead. We must act now."

Harry took out his glasses and propped them on. "We need to go there now."

Pansy had her face in the shadows, and Ron passed by her without glancing in her direction. But then Draco gestured towards her, and Ron stopped in his tracks.

In the gloom, their eyes met. People jostled past the three of them in their hurry to go into the fire. Draco, judging the moment was right, left too.

"Pansy," Ron said, his voice cracked. She didn't know if it was due to pain or longing. She told herself she didn't care, not anymore.

"Ron," she breathed. Then she looked away. "I'm sorry."

Like the last time she had said that, he went so still and quiet, she couldn't bear it. She stepped forward and brushed his sleeve as she stepped into the fireplace.

But then his arm snaked out and caught her arm.

"We're going together," he said, his blue eyes glittering with a fierce determination. His gaze upon her flushed face was unwavering and so raw that she felt the whole world around them cease to exist.

She nodded.


	63. Part Two: Eighteen

The battle was short. So short that by the time the Death Eaters had blinked in sleepiness it was already over. They were surrounded, and those who tried to attack were subdued immediately.

Voldemort's pale, inhuman body lay sprawled amongst the wreckage of the fireworks, and Draco's wand was still quivering, still pointed at his chest.

One by one, they stood. Nobody cried. Nobody grieved. They had known that defeat was inevitable when Narcissa and her husband and the other pureblood clans had refused to fight. Perhaps even Voldemort had known, when he locked them up instead of killing them. But none of them had expected this.

Draco almost fell, shuddering, but Harry gripped his shoulder firmly. "You must hold strong," he hissed in his ear. "_You_ killed him, remember?"

It had been quick. A simple _Expelliarmus_, a horrible, sinking feeling as life escaped, and then-and then the feeling of relief a small twitch caused.

Pansy, who never left Ron's side, walked over and pulled Draco away from the corpse.

"Bury him," Hermione said coldly. "Bury him next to his father."

And then they all returned home, with the Death Eaters shackled and dumb with dawning dread.

All but Draco, who remained frozen, his mind numb at what had happened.

Hermione reached for his cold hand and gently tugged him towards the lake. He let her.


	64. Part Two: Nineteen

They rowed in silence. Companionable silence. The oars dipped and soared, dipped and soared. The water rippled. A bird sang its greeting.

"I thought-" Draco mumbled, "I thought_ I _was the one-"

"No," she said, softly, "It had to be Harry. But they needed to see that it was you."

"But why?" he croaked, "am I not enough?"

"It isn't because of strength, or power," Hermione said, "But because a tiny part of Harry was Voldemort, and so long as that part remains, Voldemort cannot be killed. It had to be Harry."

"But why _me_?"

She gave him a long, searching look. "I think you know why," she said, "today they are struck with hollowness. Tomorrow _you_ will have to lead. The war may be over, but the fight is not. We cannot afford to let another person take Voldemort's place. Ignorance is deadly."

He barked a small gasp of laughter. "And you think that I am suitable,_ Mudblood_?"

She didn't so much as flinch. His taunt no longer held any venom behind it.

"You are," she said, with sudden fierceness. She stood, rocking the small boat with a frightful jolt. "When will you acknowledge the power you have? Your ability to lead? _When?_"

He didn't answer.

"Even in _first year_ you had a little crowd of adoring fans, people who fawned over you, people who would land themselves in detention for you. Harry couldn't do that. He might've been the Boy Who Lived, but it was you who controlled the crowd, you who swayed their emotions. Harry cannot lead. _You_ can."

She seemed so forlorn and hurt that he found himself reaching across and pulling her down towards him.

"I can't do this on my own," he whispered, "I can't."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the parchment. "I read your story," he said, "and I think we both know each other now, with you writing it, and me reading it."

It was her turn to freeze. During her captivity, when Viola suggested writing to the person who haunts her every breath, it was not her friends or her allies that crept into her mind, but him. Her stories were planned carefully, but somehow he took control of the pen and her heart, and turned her simple story that played on the sympathy of two star-crossed lovers into a longing of her feelings. She had been writing a love letter to Draco Malfoy all along.

She closed her eyes, feeling her pale cheeks redden. He didn't know if it was from shame or from realization. He hoped it was the latter.

"I told Pansy she was bonkers," he grinned, "that you only chose me because I'm the only eligible bachelor around. I suppose that's true as well. You've scored yourself a handsome hero who apparently killed the big ugly monster."

She snorted, and the sound made his heart race.

"Row us back to shore," she ordered, "and then leave me alone. I have a List to complete."

She pulled away, and in her hands was the parchment. His chest still felt warm from where she had touched him.


	65. Part Two: Twenty

The List was not, as Hermione had written in her story, a Christmas present. It came to existence when, sitting around bored and frustrated, Draco had penned the title while she was rattling off about their-excuse me, _her_- project for Muggle Studies.

"I'll do the stupid book," he snapped, "if you fill this out."

He pushed the list of questions towards her.

She blinked, and to his immense surprise, reached out and answered the first question.

"Hermione_ Jean _Granger."

"Jean? That's your middle name? Oh Merlin- the shame!"

As the years went by, Draco added more and more questions. When they were alone in that room, once, and Pansy had been away fetching dinner, he wrote down_ 'Is she bi-polar?' _and _'What does it take to make her smile?'_

Then they were separated, and Voldemort's crushing influence loomed above them. She could no longer answer.

Until-Until Pansy and his mother knocked on his door, and showed them the note they were to send to her.

She had replied within the hour, and he found himself hoping, once again.


	66. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Voldemort was buried in a small plot beside Tom Riddle Senior. It would be the ultimate shame for him, to be surrounded by muggles, and lying not a foot away from the father he so despised. His funeral was attended by all those that knew him, and when his casket was lowered, and the dirt thrown on top, they went back to Hogwarts and rebuilt it, as Hermione knew they could.

No plaque was erected, no mention of who was underneath that newly turned earth. For a while, muggles visiting that cemetery came up with their own theories and stories, but none were close to the truth.

The fallen ones, the brave witches and wizards had had fought for their cause and died, were buried next to Dumbledore's grave. Minerva McGonagall was given the place of honor, right next to him, and Professor Binn's gravestone with his empty grave was lovingly created by Pansy. Without him, none of them would be here. None of them would have known what path to take, and Hermione would never have travelled back in time to seek out the future.

Ron and Pansy started dating again-and contrary to what Hermione's story suggested, their love was true and strong. At first Pansy refused to listen to Ron as he suggested they rebuild her childhood home, but she finally let herself be guided, and even designed the giant clock altar herself. She was a descendent of the Tempas Touched, and her altar was dedicated to Aion and Viola, and not the Goddess. She swore that nobody will alter time again.

Hermione still felt the effects from traveling back and then forth in time. Sometimes she suffered paralyzing seizures which made her see things that happened centuries ago. The parchments she took from the past disintegrated one night, into a cobwebbed pile that she knew would never be fixed. Time, as Aion told her, was not anybody's to control. Even he had to pay the toll, and he had the blessing of a Goddess. At times she felt her bones creak, her joints aching, and her brain crammed with lifetimes of memories that didn't belong to her. She might have offered Pansy's blood as payment to travel back in time, but the knowledge of the future was something more expensive than what a mortal could give.

The healing of her mind was slow. She could be cruel-painfully cruel and cold- and then explode into a chorus of ranting within moments. She refused to listen to her friends as they begged her to come out of her room. War may have changed her, but Time kept her prisoner.

All through it all, Draco refused to leave her side. Only he was able to coax her out and take a bite or two of her dinner. Only he was able to tell her what was happening while she isolated herself from others. He had not only read her story, but understood it. She hated her new, manipulative self that could look down upon a dead man's face and not feel a shred of emotion, even if Voldemort wasn't a man. She hated how people both respected and feared her, now that they knew what she had done in order to win. She hated herself, and Draco was the only one who could get her to like her.

_"What does it take for her to smile?" _

It was the last question on his list. And she had not answered it.

Yet.


	67. Author's Note: Who's Who?

**Author's Note:**

Hey guys! Thanks for reading my story- I hope you enjoyed it!

It's a relatively short story, and I was going to add in more chapters, but then I thought I had ended it where I wanted it to end, so... status: complete it is!

At first I was going to upload several chapters on a set date, like every Monday or so, but then I realised that my story was best read in one whole breath, for all the chapters to be readily available so you can flip back and fourth and see if you had caught on to the little clues and hints I'd left along the way.

Since you've (hopefully) read the entire thing, you probably could match a name to all of the characters in Part One. Just to clarify for those who are still confused:

**SPOILER ALERT**

I/me/myself- referred to Hermione Granger

You- Draco Malfoy

My best friend (the one who dated and then was dumped by Draco's friend, who also confronted Draco during Potions)- Ron

The other best friend-Harry, of course!

The male best friend of Draco- Blaise

The 'henchmen type friends'- Goyle and Crabbe

Her (in the story accounts)/Draco's female best friend- Pansy

The Gryffindor friend who slept beside Professor Sprout's grave- Neville.

Him (Capital 'H')-Voldemort

The woman who found Hermione on the battleground, and offered her the two choices of drink- Narcissa

Her/the girl-Viola Parkinson

Him (the one who kept her captive)-Aion Tempas

**END OF SPOILER**

I hope this helped!

Please REVIEW. I'd appreciate it very much, constructive criticism is welcome, since, let's face it, this isn't a perfect story.

Again, thank you for reading my story!

~Damian Cross


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